


lightning striking the pine

by feralphoenix



Series: the away game [8]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Autistic Frisk, Breast Play, DFAB Chara, Disabled Character, Domestic, Don't copy to another site, Explicit Sexual Content, Intersex Frisk, Nonverbal Frisk, Other, Overstimulation, Politics, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Pussy Worship, Sex Toys, Spoilers - Undertale Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 23:31:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17253425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: Frisk returns from a long work trip stressed out and especially needy. Chara is touch-starved and ready for affection. How serendipitous!





	lightning striking the pine

**Author's Note:**

> _(find magic wherever you look_ – wanting beyond wanting: a quicksand love, a black hole love; parched desert heat longing for a trembling dewy spring)

You think it’s the discomfort of the way your nose is pressed against your pillow that wakes you, but almost the first thing you register upon being awake is the whisper of Frisk’s deep rhythmic panting behind your back, the slight wiggle of the mattress beneath you, the occasional squeak of springs.

It doesn’t surprise you at all that they’re already masturbating first thing in the morning. They’ve been pent up and alone for quite some time now. They know better than to wake you, and they also know that you’re not going to squawk at them if they want to blow a little steam off. They’re horny most of the time and they tend to masturbate for self-comfort too, so lazy at-home days often feature Frisk taking a sojourn to play with a toy if you and Asriel aren’t in the mood, or involve them just going about their business with something unobtrusive inside them.

While you’re still blinking at the wall, Frisk whines a little, probably coming, and—you _do_ wonder just how long they’ve been at it, if they’re making noise. There’s a little pang in your chest at the thought that they may have been awake for quite some time now, too wracked with that awful don’t-abandon-me anxious politeness to try to wake you up, and Frisk was collapse-on-themself exhausted when they got back last night so you only got to have about five minutes’ worth of sex in the shower. Also, it’s hot when usually-silent Frisk starts to whine and moan. So you yawn a little and stretch your legs out under the covers and slowly push yourself up.

Beside you on the too-huge bed that you can finally sleep in again now that Frisk is here and you aren’t completely alone, Frisk has gathered up the surplus of pillows that usually serve to help keep Asriel from straining his neck and fashioned them into a slope high and solid enough to sit against. They’re leaned heavily against this slope, legs spread wide, one breast squished against their upper arm (and also against its twin) while Frisk grips a dildo by the base, pumping it into their pussy in quick staccato thrusts. Their head is leaned back against the pillows, throat all stretched out, quivering in time with their lips; their lashes flutter against their cheeks. They’ve put their glasses on already—fuck if you know why, the curtains are still drawn and everything—and the vigor of their movements has sent the glasses slightly askew in a way that makes your pussy throb to look at. Strands of their hair are stuck to their forehead and cheeks.

You let your line of sight trail down their body. Their skin’s shiny with sweat, their soft belly is bunched up in rolls from the way they’ve got their spine arched, and the insides of their thighs and the base of their buttocks look sticky with come. Little drops of the stuff hang like morning dew in the curls of their pubes, and their clit is thick with blood and twitching erratically.

You swallow and shift on the mattress again, so that Frisk will hear and feel you moving and it hopefully won’t be a surprise when you croak, “You want company?”

Frisk shivers and opens their eyes to look sidelong at you, effortlessly sultry. Your vulva throbs in response. _“Please,”_ they whisper.

“Ah, _god.”_ You can already feel yourself getting wet; your nipples are suddenly very, very hard. “Let me—let me go take a piss and wake myself up first, okay? And then I’ll be right back.”

Frisk nods and whimpers just a little as they slowly retract the toy. From the way their lower stomach goes taut you’re pretty sure they’re clamping down on it as they go. “This one won’t fit in a harness,” they say. “I’ll find one that does while you’re in the bathroom and get it ready.”

You shiver all over and smile at them. “I’ll try to make it quick.”

On the way to the bathroom that’s just one door away, you stop at the dresser to grab a random pair of boyshorts. All of Frisk’s toy harnesses have a strap that loops between the legs for extra security, and while you do like pressure against your crotch, you are the extreme opposite of a fan of the way those feel on the bare flesh of your vulva. They’re too scratchy even for the insides of your thighs, if you’re really worked up.

You shut the bathroom door behind you and fill the little cup on the counter with water so as to slake your literal thirst. And, since you’re here already anyway, you get out your pill planner from the medicine cabinet and take your daily pills—anti-inflammatory painkillers for your bad joints, antidepressants, and birth control.

By this time you’re ready to sit down and piss, so you do; cleaning up means wiping your precome away too, but it’s not like you won’t be producing plenty more as soon as you head back into the bedroom, so that’s whatever.

After putting your feet through the holes of your underwear and pulling them up to your knees, you pause and consider whether to put a thin pad on them or not. Frisk _is_ home and that means that laundry _will_ probably start to happen soon between the laundry they brought back and the fact that you’ll be assed to change clothes now they’re around, but your underwear last longer if you at least put _some_ effort towards not drenching them with precome and discharge all the fucking time.

It’ll be an extra barrier against the harness strap, you decide, and carefully affix one after all.

You flush the toilet, wash your face, and brush your teeth. There. That’s _much_ better.

Properly awake and presentable now, you return to the bedroom.

Frisk is sitting up on their side of the bed watching for you, and starts to wiggle with anticipation as soon as they see you. They’ve got one hand between their legs, definitely playing with themself to tide themself over, and in their other they’re holding a dildo already secured in the thin black straps of the harness.

“Lube?” you ask as you approach the bed, raising your eyebrows.

Frisk whines in protest. “Do we _really_ need it? I’m horny enough, and this is _tiny_ compared to Asriel.”

“It isn’t that I’m doubting your prowess as our de facto Size Royalty,” you tell them, “I just don’t want you to get chafed or torn, since you’ve been playing with toys for a while already. Ree’s going to be out for at least another week, we can’t just get him to patch you up right away, and I know you’re gonna be miserable if we have to leave your pussy out of all the TLC you need after your last business trip.”

Frisk makes another despondent noise. “Why must you always attack me with your common sense.”

“One, because I love you; two, for the sake of my own self-preservation. If you got hurt while we have sex and you go to Toriel to heal you you’re going to have to explain that the problem is tears in your vagina and she will be able to guess how you got them, meaning that I will probably evaporate on the spot from embarrassment and shame.”

“I guess it’d be hard to have sex and cuddle if you’ve evaporated,” Frisk says thoughtfully.

“Only imagine if we had to go back to sharing your body at this late date. It would be unlivable for many reasons, _and_ we wouldn’t be able to have sex anymore.”

“I dunno,” they say wickedly. “I think we could do some pretty fun things each controlling one hand.”

You laugh, because of course Frisk will have thought of that. “Regardless, I prefer the way that we each have space to enjoy our relative sexual likes and dislikes. Is that thing made of silicone or not?”

“Silicone,” Frisk says, huffing, closing their eyes as they work themself. “The good stuff.”

It would be very unfortunate if you managed to accidentally melt a dildo Frisk likes by using the wrong kind of lube, so you double-check to make sure you’ve picked up a water-based one before climbing up onto the bed and crawling across it to Frisk’s side.

You have to step off the mattress again to belt yourself securely into the harness, adjusting all the straps so that they’re properly tight around your waist and legs. The base of the dildo rests flat very low on your belly, higher than where your lips split; it’s a firm, pleasant sensation of weight. It probably feels this nice because it puts pressure on the internal parts of your clitoris and your erect vagina and uterus, the same reasons you like for Asriel to support you with a hand at your lower belly when he’s fucking you from behind.

As for the dildo itself… it just looks sort of goofy sticking out of your crotch, if you’re going to be honest with yourself. It doesn’t feel _bad_ to look down and see it, not the way human eyes on you makes you want to peel your skin off if you haven’t bound your breasts as flat as you safely can to try to head off misgendering. It’s just very much a foreign object, one you would never use this way if Frisk wasn’t such a diehard toy fan. Whenever you use the harness together, you’re caught between wishing that you had some sort of sensation in the toy so that you could gauge Frisk’s reactions as accurately as you can with your hands or mouth, and feeling weird about wishing that even for practicality’s sake because you like your genitals the way they are.

Frisk wipes their wet hand off on the sheets and scoots away from their pillow throne. _I rearranged all these while you were in the bathroom so they wouldn’t be all sweaty,_ they tell you.

“That’s very sweet,” you say, and climb back up onto the mattress, careful of the toy. Your partner is visibly wiggly with impatience, but they sit and wait politely while you uncap the lube, pour some onto your fingertips, and coat the length of the toy. Now that you’re actually looking at it, this is definitely one of their more modest ones; it’s a cheerful navy blue in color but is still very much the shape and (you think) average size of a normal human penis. The shaft is very slightly curved and a little less than two inches thick, somewhat squishy to the touch but with an unyielding core of denser material at the center. Asriel was, you think, only a little bigger than this toy is back when you, he, and Frisk started having sex.

You pull a tissue from the box on the bedside table to wipe your hand off, then crumple it up and set it and the lube there with a stretch. This done, you resettle, resting your upper back against the pillows.

“I’m ready,” you tell Frisk. “Do you need me to hold this still for you?”

“No,” they breathe, scooting up the bed to straddle your legs. Your heart skips and your pussy aches a little as the insides of their legs touch yours and their weight shifts the mattress beneath you: Aside from being still slick with sweat and precome, they’re very warm. “I’ve got it.”

You rest your hands on Frisk’s hips as they reach between their legs to hold their lips open and grip the base of the toy. They lower themself slowly, their body swaying softly towards yours as they sink; as they draw closer you slide your hands around to the small of their back.

Frisk’s breath catches just a little as the tip of the toy sinks in—you can feel it from their weight putting pressure on the base where it lies against your groin. They let go of its shaft first, moving that hand to put it on your shoulder instead; they sigh, lashes fluttering, as they smoothly accept the rest. They don’t lift their other hand from between their legs until they’ve almost sat completely in your lap.

“Not too heavy?” they whisper, pausing, eyes flicking back and forth across your face. On either side of you their legs are shivering slightly.

“No,” you say, and lean down a little to kiss their chest, vaguely around where their breast tissue starts. “C’mon, come sit.”

Frisk hums and lowers their weight fully, wrapping their arms around you, pressing the side of their face against yours. Their thighs and shins bracket your hips neatly, soft and shivery; their belly and their breasts are a warm weight against your front. You wrap your own arms tightly around their waist and rest your chin on their shoulder, close your eyes. The straps of the harness are pulling against your thighs and your butt a bit, but you ignore that in favor of Frisk’s full-body embrace, a closeness that’s simultaneously near-overwhelming after the past few weeks of touch starvation and yet nowhere near enough for you.

Frisk’s pulse is rapid, vibrating from their skin to yours through their neck at your shoulder, their chest pressed to yours, their hands and wrists clasped at the middle of your back. Their body heat makes you feel flushed, and their wetness is starting to seep lightly into your underwear around the harness. In terms of full-body contact this is as close as you can get to each other now, limbs wrapped tightly around each other, connected by Frisk’s toy.

And that knowledge makes your heart ache as intensely as it makes your pussy thrum. Your head knows that you and they are better off separate, but your heart won’t let go of the dream of sharing love and pleasure with the ease of a thought.

You skim one hand up their back to the nape of their neck and softly trail your fingertips over their hairline, fine and delicate and damp with sweat. Frisk shivers and grasps at your back, squeezes you between their thighs. You drop a kiss to their shoulder and lightly graze your teeth over the same spot. They shiver again, breath rasping, and start to squirm in your lap, awkwardly thrusting up and down the length of the toy. The motions gently tug and jostle at the strap pressed over the length of your pussy, burning, teasing.

Face-to-face and body-to-body like this it’s hard for you to thrust; if you wanted to be able to move your hips with any force you’d need to lean back to rest your weight on your hands and grip for traction with your feet. You’d need to get your braces in order to keep from really hurting your wrists doing that, so you stay put and let Frisk do the work, stroke their back and kiss their shoulder and the side of their neck.

You definitely can’t come like this but you’re not entirely sure they can either. You _do_ want to come, and you’re sure they do too, but coming isn’t everything, and besides, sometimes it makes orgasm sweeter to wait. It’s been so long since you could just hold each other. If that’s what Frisk needs most right now, you’re happy to provide.

But you think their tiny little squeaks and grunts are getting more frustrated in tone, so you turn your head a little to lick at their earlobe. They jump a little in your arms and wriggle, whining.

“Are you ready to come?” you ask low.

Frisk shivers and makes a low faint moaning noise and nods. You shift a little where you sit, trying to press against the harness strap to give your slick burning pussy some relief.

You lick the side of their throat and nibble the earlobe again. Frisk whimpers. “Do you want me on top? Or do you want to ride me?”

“I want you over me,” they tell you, voice thin and warbling and cracked and breathy. Your nipples are so hard it kind of hurts. “I want to kiss you. Want to play with your tits.”

You shudder and moan a little yourself. “Okay. God. God. Relax so I can lay you down without, without having to pull the toy out, all right?”

They nod enthusiastically, and you can feel the lines of their body go limp, their weight resting against you. One arm gentle around their waist, you slowly lean forward, tipping Frisk over before you until their back rests against the sheets, legs splayed around your waist.

You take a few seconds to carefully balance yourself on your knees and look down at them all flushed and muzzy beneath you, dark hair spread out about their head, the way gravity pulls their breasts into low broad mounds on their chest, kept from hanging sideways by their bra. You sink down onto your forearms and tilt your head a little and kiss them, running teeth and tongue over their plush lips before really sinking into them.

Your first couple thrusts are slow and careful. The dildo you’re using is an unfeeling hunk of silicone, so you can never really be sure if your angle is quite right unless you’re paying careful attention to Frisk’s expression and their breathing. You’re more confident with your fingers, when you can feel them clench and pull on you directly, can feel if they’re properly wet and can tell firsthand the angle of their vagina, how tight or forgiving they are.

Frisk just grips at your back and hums into your mouth and sucks on your tongue, though, so you think it’s safe to guess that they’re greedy for more. You pump your hips in faster, making more shallow thrusts. The base of the dildo is now almost too firm against your belly—the pressure is good but you’d rather have a hand here, something warm and broad and with give—but your movements keep grazing your clit against the harness strap, gliding smooth through your precome.

Frisk stops sucking your tongue to lick at your mouth instead, sloppy, impatient. “Harder,” they mumble up against your lips. “Pound me. I’m close.”

“’Kay,” you say, breathless. You pull your hips back farther and snap them back down with significantly more force. Frisk closes their eyes and sighs beneath you, their eyes fluttering shut. You pull back again and thrust in even harder, quicker. The mattress rattles. Frisk wraps their legs around your waist and makes a contented noise low in their throat.

You keep fucking them like that, brisk and stiff, watching their face carefully: This is, you’re sure, the only reason you catch it when they come. Their mouth drops open silently and they exhale shuddery and sharp; their thighs tremble a little around you, and their chest stutters as they breathe.

Frisk is weird and thinks what little refractory period they’ve got is a good excuse for stimmy, so you don’t slow down; you are rewarded with them kneading at your shoulders and squeaking cutely every time the head of the toy fetches up against the sensitive depths of their vagina you can’t reach any other way. After about a minute of this they begin to relax, breathing more smoothly, hands slipping from your shoulders to your ribs.

“Slow now,” they pant, smiling. “Really slow. Wanna feel the whole toy. Its whole shape.”

You nod and let your hips settle into an easier, less frenetic swing. This is probably for the best, actually; now that you’re slowing down the muscles of your thighs are starting to burn, especially just above your knees. You haven’t exactly been _active,_ all alone in the house for weeks.

“Slower,” Frisk breathes. “Slow as you can.”

“Okay,” you say, and shift up onto your hands instead so that you’ll be able to look down the length of Frisk’s body to gauge your thrusts. You don’t want to pull the toy all the way out and have to fumble awkwardly to reestablish penetration right when Frisk is enjoying themself. “How is this?”

They hum, low and pleased. You smile back down at them and settle into the gentle rhythm.

It’s been—god, you don’t know, maybe ten strokes? Fifteen? when Frisk’s hands slide around casual as anything to cup your breasts. Your breath hitches a little—you were so busy trying to not completely pull the toy out that you forgot Frisk said they wanted to touch your chest—and then they very very gently pinch your nipples and roll them. You, breathing long and deep with your mouth slightly open, make a very undignified noise very loudly: The sensation’s a sharp ticklish heat that arrows between your legs and throbs there.

Frisk shifts their hands to gently squeeze your breasts in their palms, thumbs your nipples again, and quite involuntarily your hips jerk forward, wanting something to push against. They reposition their legs around your waist, gently pressing down with their heels to pull you in close; your feet slide down the mattress, scattering pillows left and right, until they press firm against the headboard. This leaves you with your legs flat to the bed and your back arched inwards like a seal, and the toy plugged deep into Frisk, buried to the hilt in their hungry pussy, so close that the scalding tip of their clit tickles your belly when you breathe.

The look on their face is sweet and guileless as they knead your breasts and pull soft and gentle on your nipples. It registers as flashes of burning chill down your spine and a mounting ache inside you. You _yell_ —how could you not yell—and grind into them, your hips pushing your pussy and clit against the harness strap and the mattress, desperate for firmer stimulation. It’s a poor substitute for a warm wet mouth, or for Frisk’s hand, or for Asriel’s thick cock.

Frisk lets go of your right breast, levers themself up on their left elbow, and tucks your nipple into their mouth instead. You grip the sheets with all your strength and stop trying not to make noise.

They swirl their tongue up and around your nipple and then the whole of your areola, very very carefully graze their teeth along your sensitive skin without pressing down. Then they drag their tongue gently up and down the underside of your nipple, and start to suck, slow and rhythmic, humming softly.

Your orgasm is brief but intense—your eyes squeeze closed, your body arcs back, you shout. Your come drenches your underwear and runs over your thighs, soaking into the bedclothes, never mind that your pussy’s barely gotten any proper direct stimulation.

Frisk gives your nipple one more playful little lick and moves their mouth, letting you sink down limp on top of them, cushioning your cheek on one pillowy breast. You’re still gasping, still shivering; a bead of sweat runs slowly down the underside of your arm. It usually takes more than one orgasm to exhaust you so much, but you usually get to build up to them steadily instead of all this unintentional edging.

The sheets and the whole crotch and front of your boyshorts are damp and sticky too: Sure you generally ejaculate when you come and all, but when it’s breast play that pushes you over the edge it’s usually more… _modest_ than this.

Frisk is lightly petting the nape of your neck and your shoulders, still revving a little beneath you. They must realize that you’re too tired to go back to humping them anytime soon, because they ask softly, “Can I roll you over?”

You hum in response. “Think you’d better sit up just in case so you don’t pin me, but okay,” you say.

“Okay.” They stroke your hair and kiss your temple, and whisk you up into their arms, lightly tilting to their side and splaying you out flat while rising up to straddle you all in one motion so they’re only looming over you for about a split second. Dazed as you are, that’s not enough for your brain to grab on to and freak out. You lay one boneless hand on Frisk’s fleshy thigh and let them pick your other hand up to weave your fingers together, and smile as they start to rock and then lift their hips up and down.

The view is gorgeous. Even constrained by their bra Frisk’s breasts still bounce a little with their movements; their chest and their belly are flushed deep pink, a combination of their sweat and yours plastering their body hair to them in goofy question marks in both places. They’ve got little strands of their hair stuck to their cheeks and their glasses are slipping down their nose, lips shivering as they breathe deeply.

It’s really only the noise that’s undignified: Frisk is so wet and their movements are so rough that given the position they make loud squelchy sounds with every thrust, and the loud squelchy sounds get louder and more exaggerated as they speed up. Finally they squeeze your hand and give a little cry, and shudder to a stop.

They sit astride you just puffing for another few moments, then open their eyes and ask breathlessly, “Do you want to come again?”

Slowly, you shake your head. “Ask me again in a couple hours, maybe. I don’t know if I even _can_ come again right now. I’m wiped.”

Frisk nods, and then grunts and lifts themself up off the dildo entirely. They trail sticky translucent come generously as they do; it mostly drips down onto the toy or sways sideways to decorate their thigh, though a little winds up on your hip instead. They don’t let go of your hand; they just lie down next to you and nestle. Thankfully it’s on the opposite side of your still-spreading come stain from earlier, so they stay put instead of popping up to get away from the damp fabric.

You squeeze their hand a little, tilting your head to press your forehead gently to their temple. They squeeze your hand back.

You need to get out of this harness, and get cleaned off and get new underwear and clothes, and they could probably use a shower, and also you need to strip the bedsheets and get new ones out if you don’t want to sleep and fuck on sheets that are all stiff and salty later. You know all of this, but you just keep lying where you are, lazy on oxytocin and tender contact.

Finally you swallow and croak out, “Welcome back, Frisk.”

They chuckle all hoarse and raspy, and it warms your heart to hear.

 

 

It takes about two hours for you both to take turns in the shower and clean up the room—maybe about a full half hour of that was just you and Frisk laying around too content to bother actually picking yourselves up, granted—but when you finally manage to get dressed in your black space tights and a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and wobble downstairs, you still feel like a yolk poured out of a cracked egg. Boneless and fluid.

Frisk, who handily beat you downstairs, is standing at the kitchen sink, cheerfully washing the dildo from earlier in soap and hot water. The drying rack is already stacked with rows of perky glass and silicone penises in varying shapes and sizes; there’s a couple of pots boiling on the range that you bet also have toys in them. Frisk prefers to take no chances sterilizing any sex toy that’s been up their ass.

As you approach, they set the final dildo in the drying rack and shut the water off with their wrist, then reach for a hand towel to dry off. You lean on the L of the counter and admire the view. They’ve come down in one of their pairs of peach ass tights and the short knit sweater dress that they prefer for lazy at-home days, citing its deep pockets as well as its ease to hike up or pull off completely for sex. It seems a little warm for as early into fall as this is, but then Frisk spent the past couple weeks way south of here. Maybe they’re still adjusting to things being cooler around the Ebott area.

“Morning,” you say. Frisk startles just a little and then turns to smile at you, pushing their glasses up. “Nice dick thicket.”

They laugh quietly, their mouth forming the shape of _dick thicket_ without actually saying the words out loud. If you’ve handed them their new favorite phrase for the day, you think you can live with that. _What do you want for breakfast?_

“Uh. Something light, maybe. I think I was managing like a meal and a half a day before you got home, so I don’t want to start eating too much too soon. I’ll just get sick.”

Frisk doesn’t get all impatient at you the way that Toriel sometimes does and more than a few of your doctors have, but they do tilt their chin down to look over the rims of their glasses at you in concern. _Maybe next time Asriel and I know we’re going to be out for a while, you should think about going to stay with Dad or with Undyne and Alphys or somebody until we get back._

You frown at them. “I don’t know that it’s really _that_ bad.”

_I can’t stop thinking about that one time we were both gone for a month and then we came back and you’d lost a fifth of your body weight to executive dysfunction,_ they say. _That was really scary. You still haven’t been able to make that weight back fully, and it’s been a while._

“Maybe Undyne and Alphys wouldn’t be the best choice in the world, since I think they’re starting to talk more seriously about having kids,” you hedge, “and Asgore wouldn’t always be available since he’s out with you and Asriel as often as not, but I guess it’s worth thinking about.” Honestly you hate having to acknowledge that you can’t take care of yourself alone for long periods of time, it hurts your pride to admit that you need someone else’s help and care to manage stuff that seems to be so little to other people. But you don’t want Frisk and Asriel to be distracted worrying about you when they already have to carry so much responsibility at work.

Frisk nods, amiable. _How about toast?_

“For breakfast? That sounds fine.”

_That’s great, ‘cause I brought back a loaf of really great bread made with mascarpone and honey as a souvenir,_ they tell you, grinning. _I think I ought to be able to bake something really close to it, with enough practice._

“I can’t tell whether you’re trying to fatten me up or proposition me,” you retort lightly, raising your eyebrows.

_I missed cooking so much,_ they go on with a sigh, not even dignifying you with a response. _I’m going to bake stuff today in my downtime. Biscotti, maybe, or challah, or apple roses._

“So, both?” you go on dryly. Frisk snickers and blows you a kiss.

_But maybe let’s at least eat breakfast and replenish your fluids before we get too frisky,_ they append, and you shrug broadly in agreement, then plod over to the fridge and fish out a can of pineapple juice and pop the tab pointedly in their direction. You lift it to your mouth but wait, grinning, while they lose it so that you won’t laugh while drinking and choke.

Frisk gets out all kinds of jam—strawberry, blueberry, blackberry, marmalade, lemon curd, apricot—as well as three kinds of butter and margarine, and cuts generous slices of the bread they brought back. You have one untoasted and plain, and that’s enough to decimate about half of your appetite; it’s incredibly sweet and incredibly _rich._ You opt for blueberry jam for your actual piece of toast. This is more than enough food for you.

Frisk, being Frisk, continues eating: You take this opportunity to get your phone out and check your messages. Both last night and this morning Asriel has sent a few dick pics and nudes; he appears to be offline right now, probably in some sort of meeting, but you leave him a few ok sign emojis and tell him you miss him too.

Alphys, who is online, has messaged you a new update for your chat program, which you accept and run.

_Nice,_ you tell her. _I don’t think I noticed any actual bugs or anything in your last update but you’re a very diligent sysop._

_LOOK the shaders were a Hottttt Mess and even if they werent bothering YOU they were bothering ME ok =vOv= plus i know i need to keep up u guys’ security, we dont need hackers finding ur nudes or ur chats abt state secrets lmao_

_Bold of you to make such assumptions about our nudes,_ you type straight-faced.

_its you guys,_ Alphys shoots back immediately. _i know better than to assume somebodys not sending nudes_

_You aren’t actually wrong,_ you tell her, and log out. Best to leave that as a parting shot. You turn your phone off and set it down on the table, returning to Frisk. “We apparently have a reputation.”

They set their toast down on their plate and look at you sidelong. That expression isn’t what you were expecting when you made the joke—they look _worried,_ eyebrows knitted at the center of their forehead behind their bangs. _What are they saying on the news NOW?_

“I didn’t check,” you say. “I meant—I was just joking with Alphys, she sent an update for our chat client to protect the nudes she rightfully assumes we send each other from prying eyes. I wasn’t on the internet at all.”

Frisk inhales deeply and then exhales even more deeply. They pick at their toast a little without actually lifting it back up to their mouth to keep eating it.

“I have been out of the loop for a while,” you say carefully. “If you’re alright talking about it… how… has work been going lately?”

Frisk makes a face and sighs. They wipe their fingers on a napkin diligently before pressing their hands to their face, pushing their glasses up off it to avoid getting them fingerprinty.

“You don’t have to tell me if it’s that bad,” you say, scooting your heels up off the floor and onto the frame of your chair so that only your toes are on the tile.

Frisk sighs and lowers their hands, straightens their glasses out. _No, I’d rather you hear it from me than centrist newscasters or some clickbait article. It… hasn’t been going great._

_It’s stuff that I’ve been talking about with Mom and Dad this past while—I don’t know how much they’ve told you, because it’s very grim, but did you know that the Ebott monster population is supposed to be THE total monster population in all of the Americas, north and south?_

You make a face. “I’ve heard a little. People didn’t like to talk about it much, but they said that conflicts with human settlers and traders from Europe and Asia had been slowly driving monsters away from the lands where they used to live. That people tended to gravitate to cities led by Boss Monsters for safety, and that if those cities were attacked and fell, that whoever survived would keep running, and the war became outright when monsters no longer had anywhere else to run.”

_Well, what Dad and Asriel and Papyrus and I are trying to accomplish now is to make it so that monsters can have passports, so that when the world is more used to monsters in general, people might be able to travel to live in different places with climates that are better suited for them. So that everyone who used to live in Hotland doesn’t have to suffer through our winters, and people from Snowdin aren’t miserable every summer._

“I did hear that with the heat wave last year a bunch of people actually went back inside the mountain to wait it out, yes.”

_We’re getting a lot of pushback for it—the Kingdom of Monsters still doesn’t have much recognition and acknowledgement as its own separate country—which is making the OTHER thing we want to lay groundwork for even MORE difficult._ Frisk pauses here to break off a piece of toast and eat it. _The Ebott kingdom is all that remains of the monsters of the Americas, but we have cultural evidence, stories and art, that points to monsters having lived all over Earth in the distant past. But in the present day monsters only live here._

“Yeah, humans killed them all, because humans are a garbage species,” you say.

_That’s one possibility,_ Frisk says, nodding. _The other is that the monsters of Europe and Asia and Africa and Australia and any island nation communities were all sealed away too._

You sit up straight and stare.

_Once monsters are able to travel,_ Frisk goes on, _my hope is that we can send groups of monsters and humans together to search all those different countries, learn from the locals about any place where monsters might be sealed away and investigate. If there’s any sort of seal or barrier then monsters ought to be able to sense it, and we can try to work to break them._

“But you can’t do that without valid passports, obviously.”

_We sure can’t,_ Frisk says with a tight smile on their face. They’re staring past you, not really seeing anything. _What’s worse is that a lot of other countries are opposed to the idea of search parties poking around everywhere. They’re worried about resources, about where all these hypothetical monsters are supposed to GO once they’re free. And since the Kingdom of Monsters isn’t fully recognized as its own nation, we tend to get parsed overtly or subconsciously as American, and the United States…_

“…has a well-deserved bad reputation of violent imperialism,” you finish. “I’m beginning to see the problem here.”

_It doesn’t matter how much we try to appeal that if there are monsters still sealed away somewhere that that injustice has to be corrected, not when people are scared that this is just a cover for the US attempting to steal their land and resources or supplant their local governments,_ Frisk says. _Dad and I are afraid that we jumped the gun, and we might never be able to get this going. OR passports, now, since people might just see passports as a prelude to our ulterior motives._

You lean back in your chair, folding your arms and sighing. “Why must humans be so awful. Why did we have to be born in _this_ terrible country. I guess the angles that you could push here are that a visible effort by humans to correct their past wrongdoings by rescuing monsters might help the future of monster-human relations, as opposed to the whole _surprise, monsters!_ way that things happened here. And more monsters around in general means more monsters who might be willing to work with hospitals and NGOs, go into magitechnology and so on…”

_Those are good ideas,_ Frisk says. _I hate that we have to make this look nonthreatening and appeal to however it will benefit humanity, though. This is WRONG. If there’s still a chance that that wrong could be righted, people ought to be jumping to fix it, not…_

“I know,” you tell them. “And I’m sorry I brought it up. You’ve been dealing with this for so long already, you deserve a break to relax and have fun and recharge.”

_Yes,_ Frisk says. _Tomorrow I want to contact everyone and see who all is available to do fun things together or just hang out, but today I just want to have a ton of sex and bake stuff and torment Asriel with sexy selfies._

You laugh. “That is extremely fair. However I am probably going to need a few breaks in between sex because all the contact’s kind of overwhelming after having been by myself for so long, and also, we should do laundry at some point today.”

_Also fair,_ Frisk says. _Let’s get that over with once we’re done with breakfast._

“More than fine by me.”

 

 

Laundry means mostly sorting through Frisk’s, as you’ve spent the majority of the past week especially in pajamas, only changing your underwear. Together you hang up their suits so that later they can be taken to a dry cleaner’s, and then you pick through the rest of their varied wardrobe together: The pants and the dresses, the t-shirts and the button-downs and the blouses.

Then there’s the tights. Frisk brought several pairs along with them—black, white, navy blue, fancy patterned ones.

_Curiously,_ every spare pair of peach tights is utterly caked in come stains. You have to put them (and a lot of Frisk’s underwear) in a separate pile for extra washing. By the third set of tights you fish out of the pile they dumped from their suitcase, you just turn and raise your eyebrows at Frisk, who starts to giggle.

“Look, I understand wanting to cut loose and relieve some stress, but _seriously?_ Do you just, like, wear these every day and titillate Asriel into ripping your clothes off as soon as you hit the hotel room after?”

_Sometimes,_ Frisk says wickedly. _Sometimes we don’t even wait until we get off work._

“So you just go at it in closets or bathrooms like a porno, then. Nice.” Frisk continues laughing. You try not to smile—honestly, you can picture them doing that, and it would explain some of the nudes Frisk has sent you in the middle of the day. It’s cute, and more than a little hot. But that’s not the problem here. “You guys even split off to take care of separate things last week and you STILL managed to cream every single pair of these you brought. These are _novelty._ We imported them from Japan. They were _really expensive.”_

_We have money now,_ Frisk says. _It’s not like we can’t buy some more._

“Well, yeah, but still. Most of us don’t buy expensive clothing for the express purpose of _nutting_ on it, _Frisk.”_

They raise their eyebrows back at you, smirking. It takes you a second to realize that they’re specifically staring down at your legs. Your space tights are also novelty, bought from the same people; both are meant to have the printed graphics hidden under what a typical miniskirt would cover. You really only wear yours with shorts; right now the silhouette of a planet against a nebula is fully visible along the top of your thigh.

“That _wasn’t_ intended as a request for you to correct this horrible oversight,” you say, a little more loudly than you meant to.

_I still COULD fix it if you want,_ Frisk says, giving you their cutest devious smile. _We’re even doing laundry. That’s the perfect excuse to sit on top of the dryer and make out._

“I don’t think there’s enough room for us to both sit flat on the dryer and also fuck, and we’re not even done sorting clothes yet, it’s going to be at least half an hour before anything’s going in there anyway. Besides which, if I come all over expensive machinery that’s going to be a job and a half to clean and make sure we’re not going to break it.”

_Dammit,_ Frisk says. They scowl for a few minutes and then brighten. _Actually… I have this toy…?_

You must already be looking at them skeptically, because they start to shake their head. _No, I mean—it’s a vibrator, a wand. I splurged on it while I was out but it wound up being a little gentle for my tastes, at least externally. I thought it might be something you might like better. Plus it’s waterproof so we wouldn’t have to worry about it getting destroyed when you come. It’d be easy to use over your underwear if you want to try it…_

“Hmm,” you say. “Exactly _how_ gentle are we talking? Most of your taste in vibes tends to be like—like the tappers I use in therapy. Gentle compared to that is still pretty strong.”

Frisk bursts out laughing, bending over a little. _My toys aren’t THAT noisy!_

“I do exaggerate,” you acquiesce, “but only very slightly.”

_You must be thinking about the cheap old bullet vibes I used when I was only just STARTING toy collecting,_ they go on, still grinning widely. _I’ll go get it so you can see for yourself if you want to try it, and a towel so we can just use the couch if we want._

“I’m sure there are used ones in the pile already that we can wash right after,” you tell them. “Why don’t I dig some out and you can just go find your toy.”

Frisk nods. They lean in to kiss your forehead and stroke your shoulder before clambering up and bouncing off to search. You watch them go, and then dutifully pull out two not-that-dirty towels to set over the couch cushions.

It takes them a while to come back; as you wait you continue sorting the laundry. You’re just setting the last folded button-down shirt in the whites pile when Frisk comes galloping back, something like a small and distorted cylinder in their hand.

You stare up at them, eyebrows raised, until they’re so close you’re afraid you’re going to get a crick in your neck.

“Here,” Frisk says proudly, “I found it,” and they plop down on the floor in front of you and hold the toy out.

You consider it. It’s maybe about five or six inches long, significantly smaller than a lot of Frisk’s toys, let alone Asriel, and the shape puts you more in mind of a q-tip or a hand flashlight than a phallus. It’s a very pale pink with a black handle, and the body of the toy is covered in low ridges like something on a madeleine that spiral up the shaft. You reach out to touch it, experimental: The silicone is soft and silky and squishy in a way that makes you want to just sort of grope it, but you’re well aware that even if it feels nice to roll around between your _fingers,_ your pussy is likely to disagree.

Frisk hands it off to you completely. _They had ‘em in green and blue too. The button is on the bottom of the black part, you have to sort of hold it down for a couple seconds to turn it on or off and then you can just push it like normal to make it switch how strong it is._

With some trepidation, you follow their instructions, fumbling a little with your off hand. It really _does_ take a while for it to start up, but once it does, it obligingly starts to hum between your fingers, sending vibrations all the way up your arm.

“This really _is_ a lot more modest than most of your wands and bullet vibes,” you observe. “I doubt there’s any risk of _this_ one buzzing right out of my hands if my grip is bad or if my fingers are feeling weak from too much work.”

Frisk snickers a little at that memory. _It’s too bad, because I really like the texture of this one, and it’s even waterproof so it’s safe to penetrate yourself with or use in the shower. Not every soft squishy one can boast the same. It might be nice to use with another toy or with Asriel but it’s really hard for me to come just using this. So you can keep it if you decide you like it._

“Well,” you say, frowning at the vibe as you switch it off, “I suppose that even if I don’t want to use it for its intended purpose, it would make a very nice (if unorthodox) stim toy. It’s quiet enough.”

_I wonder if I could get Alphys to take something like this and give it more like a synthetic flesh or skin covering,_ Frisk says thoughtfully, gazing off into the distance benignly the way they do when they’re scheming. _I bet she could get close. That might make some toys easier for you to use, and even if you don’t like them, I sure would._

“I am not sure how I feel about that mental image. I guess let’s just try this thing before we get too ahead of ourselves.”

Frisk claps a little, beaming. _I warn you, it IS going to be real hard to get anything out of that little guy through all that denim._

You hand the vibrator back off to them and pull yourself delicately to your feet, very slowly and deliberately unbutton the front of your shorts and undo the zipper and slide it down your thighs until it drops to the floor on its own. Frisk grins. You raise your eyebrows at them, trying and failing not to smile, and step out of them one foot at a time. They pick up the shorts and drop them carelessly on the wrong laundry pile as you make yourself comfortable on the sofa: You could say something about that, but it’s not like it’s so very urgent, and besides, your heart is starting to beat faster, your nipples and your clit starting to harden.

Frisk scoots closer, still seated. The toy folded into one hand, they gently skim the backs of their fingers up the insides of your legs, from your knees almost to your crotch: Your breath hitches and you shiver, pleasant tingles sweeping up your back.

“A little warm-up first?” they ask in a husky whisper. You bite your lip and nod.

They twirl the toy in between the fingers of their left hand a little and reach their right up to gently trace your pussy through your tights and underwear. A soft sound bubbles up low in your throat, and you push against the floor with the pads of your feet, hips automatically lifting a little into their touch.

“Already wet,” they observe, lips curling.

“Well, _yeah,”_ you say, your voice creaking a little. You highly doubt it’s possible for you to look at Frisk (or, for that matter, Asriel) kneeling in front of you like this without getting aroused—they’ve both put too much work into cultivating talented tongues. “Sometime later—when we don’t have laundry that needs doing, maybe tonight— _please_ eat me out. I’ve missed it.”

They smile and nod cutely. “Dessert,” they say. Then they gently nudge your knees spread enough to fit their shoulders between, and lean in to march kisses up your thigh, ending with pressing their soft mouth over your clit. The warmth and pressure of their skin, the feel of their breath through the fabric of your underwear, pulls some long squeaky noise out of you.

Apparently not satisfied with just that, they trail their lips down over yours, and lick the fabric of your tights all slow and lingering, working their saliva into the material so that between them and your precome there’s a sizable wet spot between your legs.

There’s a faint click and then a low hum, and that saves you from jumping out of your skin when Frisk rests the side of the vibrator very gently against your thigh, about where they started touching you a minute and a half ago. You turn to blink at it with a hazy head.

“This okay?” Frisk asks your pussy.

You consider this, and they hold still to let you consider this, which is sweet of them but maybe not as effective as they mean for it to be because their mouth hovering half a centimeter from you is still extremely distracting. Regardless, you try your best to bend your mind to the topic at hand. Even the fabric of the tights alone shields your skin a little from the actual texture of the silicone, and while the vibration is extremely gentle it still gives you good shivers. If it’s too soft for you to feel much of it through your underwear you guess you can just ask Frisk to turn it up. “Yeah.”

They smile and nod, and turn their head just slightly to kiss your other thigh while they slowly, slowly trail the toy up the length of your leg. It _tickles,_ and you have to brace your legs to avoid kicking out on reflex even with Frisk’s soft wet mouth to balance it out.

Finally they trail it up and over the fabric of your underwear and across the right side of your lips. You squeak a little and shiver, both involuntary—even counting your few past short-lived experiments with toys, you can’t say the very gentle buzz of this vibrator is quite like anything you’ve ever experienced before. It’s closer to what it feels like when Frisk or Asriel punctuate cunnilingus with little hums of effort or satisfaction, or moans from whatever they’re doing with (or whatever’s being done to) their junk at the same time—but the tip of the toy is a lot smaller and more localized than your partners’ mouths.

“Where’s good?” Frisk asks, soft, and slowly trails the toy over and around your pussy.

You gasp as they press it gently against your clit. “Too much.”

Frisk nods and traces further down. “Here?”

“Better.” They settle it just about at the entrance to your vagina, and you sigh and lean back against the sofa, planting your hands flat on the towel beneath you instead of gripping it. You close your eyes to shut out your surroundings, the better to concentrate on the curious sensation of the toy. “A little lower?” Frisk complies, and you shiver—okay, _this_ you could get to like, maybe, this feels nice. Your pulse is pounding between your legs. It makes you want to squirm, but with your eyes closed you don’t want to thrust in at a weird angle and pinch yourself by accident—that’d be easier to avoid if you were holding the toy, not Frisk.

“This good?” they ask, soft.

“Yes, but—maybe… wiggle it a little, instead of holding it still?”

“’Kay.”

“Ah,” you say, a lot more high-pitched than you meant it to come out, because Frisk is gently kneading the mouth of your pussy with the head of the toy, a soft shallow piston that presses into you as much as your underwear allows and tickles your lips. This you probably ought to have expected, because Frisk fucking knows the motions and rhythms you like them to finger you with. The addition of the toy has got you so off balance. “Yeah, there’s—!! There is good.”

Frisk giggles a little and stays their course. You push back against the sofa and grab the towel, trying to keep the rise and fall of your hips small against Frisk’s movements.

The gentle buzzing of the vibrator and Frisk’s modest strokes hum through your whole body in waves, and you find yourself continually shivering as your breath roughens. Their rubbing your entrance steadily like this feels great, but it’s frustrating too thinking about how much better it would feel if they could dip the toy into you just a little—this might be too much against your g-spot just like it’s too much only touching your clit, but it would probably feel _amazing_ stroking you so shallow it’s barely inside. If _only_ it weren’t the wrong texture.

You are still distracted by this train of thought when the angle of the toy suddenly changes—the head rolling until the shaft is pressing against your vulva too, all up and down your lips, grazing your clit from time to time as Frisk pumps it up and down at an angle. You shiver all down your spine so your legs are trembling when you come with a force that almost makes you choke on air.

Frisk lifts the toy away, and you can hear it still buzzing for another few seconds before they switch it off. You open your eyes at a squint, still shaking a little; Frisk, still looking up at you, sets a bracing hand on your knee and rubs it. “Okay?”

You cough once and clear your throat to make sure you’re not going to inhale any spit and have to spend the next couple minutes awkwardly hacking. “Yeah,” you say. Fuck, you sound so winded. “Yeah, that was good.”

They smile at you cutely. _“Told_ you. Are you satisfied for now or do you want to come again?”

You shiver more deliberately this time. “I can go again. And don’t _you_ try to tell me that you don’t want a little attention too. Get up here so I can kiss you.”

Frisk wiggles with happiness and pops up with enough energy to make their breasts bounce a little. They rest one knee on the sofa cushion next to your leg and then lean their weight against it, the other foot set between yours as if to remind you not to close your thighs. You lean against the back of the couch and smile up at them, rest your hand atop their leg and watch their face. They wiggle again and nod at you, so you skim that hand up under the short skirt of their sweater dress and slide it between their legs.

They’re very hard, clit stretching the fabric of their tights to stand out. When your fingers pass over them you’re struck by how hot the vulnerable flesh is against your skin, at their pulse galloping in their erection. Frisk’s breath hitches, and they undulate their hips so they push into your hand.

“The tights aren’t too scratchy?” you ask, breathless. _You_ wouldn’t like this texture pressed flush against your pussy.

Frisk shakes their head, though. “No,” they say, voice winding and faint. “I kinda like it.”

“Okay, just wanted to make sure.” You tilt your wrist to tuck their clit against your palm and then skate your fingers over their lips.

They’re _wet._ Maybe not to the same soak-through-your-clothes degree that you get wet, but their whole crotch is musky-slick and warm under your hands, dewy enough for your fingertips to get damp just touching them. They shudder and smile all contented, lips parting, eyes fluttering shut. Their face is flushed. The bumpy weave of their dress means you have to consciously look for it to find it, but their nipples are hard enough to be visible even through their clothes. You press down lightly and move your wrist and forearm to drag your fingers back and forth, and they make a soft sound. Their face is starting to flush.

Their hand that isn’t occupied with the toy settles on your shoulder, squeezing a little as you work them, and then it slides down to your chest. You pause very briefly in case this means they want to push you back—maybe this isn’t the angle they want to be stroked at?—but the hand moves down past your heart until they’re gently gripping your breast.

“This good?” Frisk breathes.

Your nipples are going to get _so_ chafed by the end of the day and it is going to be _so worth it._ “Yeah,” you rasp. “And what happened to that toy?”

They giggle and you hear it begin to buzz again, and they lean in to kiss you.

You whine. You whine a _lot._ You find yourself too dizzied by Frisk’s mouth on yours and their forefinger and thumb gently pinching your nipple and the softly humming toy tracing up and down the seam of your lips to give two shits about it. They’re so close and warm, and the pleasure radiating through your crotch and your breast are giving you chills, and Frisk is sloppy and pulsing under your hand and they keep sucking your lower lip until it’s like you can _feel_ your thoughts dissipating. Their weight and momentum bear you back against the sofa which isn’t really the greatest angle for your arm, so you grab the back of their waist instead and guide them down until they’re thrusting against the top of your thigh, leaving a streak of precome that’s so warm you startle reflexively.

Frisk drops their hand to your waist and drags the hem of your shirt up over your breasts, pulls the cup of your bra down so that you’ve got the one tit hanging out, and leaves wet messy licks and kisses at the same rhythm they’re pumping their hips to. They don’t tuck the nipple into their mouth and start sucking until they rest their weight in one spot on your leg and start to grind, so that their little sounds of effort and desperation echo up through your vulnerable flesh.

They come first, jerking and shuddering, spilling wet in rivulets over your thigh, but it’s close—with the toy humming against your clit and your entrance and Frisk whimpering into your breast you can feel yourself slipping, arch your back and bite your lip as you explode. You smell salt. A wet stain is spreading rapidly under your legs and you hope distantly that the towel was enough to save the seat covers from needing a wash too.

Frisk slumps in your arms, switching the toy off almost as an afterthought. They drop it onto the cushion next to you and you hold each other and pant.

It takes about until your chest and the come-soaked patches of your tights start to feel uncomfortably cool for your head to clear. You swallow and squeeze Frisk’s shoulder. They make a soft questioning grunt into yours.

“Well, you’ve managed to convince me,” you tell them. “You’re not getting this toy back.”

At this they laugh into the side of your neck until their voice gets dry and they start to cough.

 

 

It feels a little pointless to keep changing clothes eight billion times today when the laundry’s already mostly done, so instead of digging out yet another outfit that will inevitably get drenched in sweat and come the next time you and Frisk get randy, you just change into new underwear and throw a bathrobe on over that. This way you’ll get to put fresh clothes on directly out of the dryer once the last load finishes, and it’ll save you more undressing if you have sex again before that. And hey, it isn’t like _you’re_ going outside today. So you lay on the couch with your phone and lounge.

Frisk, in the meantime, is making good on their word to bake up a storm. They’ve already got vanilla biscotti speckled with cake sprinkles on a cooling rack, and yet they’re busily whisking away at a bowl of something else too.

You watch this for a few minutes and then say, “Babe, that is _way_ too much for the two of us to get through by ourselves before it gets stale, even with your appetite.”

“I know,” says Frisk. “I was thinking we should bring some over to our friends. MK said that Snowy and his dad are going to be in town for a while, until their next tour. So I thought we should visit him anyway. And Mom will like it if we bring some for her. Is there anyone else you want to see? I know we’ll have to work out the schedules a lot.”

“Yeah, unfortunately, unless you’re willing to go by yourself to see the people who tend to eat through my spoons. I haven’t seen Sans in a while, and going to see Undyne and Alphys never takes much out of me. Same for Suzy and Noelle.”

Frisk makes a soft noise. “You know—maybe you should see if _they’d_ like to have you next time Asriel and I will be gone for a long time.”

“Sounds like a third wheel nightmare almost as bad as Undyne and Alphys’ place.”

Frisk gives you a Reproachful Look without even pausing in stirring. “Please stop making excuses to avoid asking for help. At least those two don’t seem to be planning on having kids anytime soon. And you’ve always gotten along really well with Suzy. I’m sure she’d be happy to help you.”

“I guess.” Out of all the monster kids (and the stray human ones) you went to school with under Toriel’s supervision, there aren’t many you’ve kept in touch with outside of Frisk’s friendships with them, but Suzy is the exception. It’s not like you’re on _bad_ terms with the other monsters, it’s always nice to see them around when Frisk drags you out. It’s just that when you were both rowdy little ten-year-olds you and Suzy had identical hero crushes on Undyne, and then later on human high school didn’t really agree with her, and so. She was your sympathetic ear for the stuff you were too embarrassed to talk to your therapist about when it came to Asriel and Frisk, and you were hers when her and Noelle’s delightful romcom finally hit in their senior year of high school, and that kind of closeness is something you’ve only got with your partners and your older friends.

And, when it comes down to it, you really _don’t_ get to see a lot of her outside of visiting together with your partners, so if it’s just staying for a day or two to break up long periods you’d otherwise be left on your own… “Maybe I can ask her over text or we can talk to her about it when we see her.”

Frisk smiles. “That’s good.”

You turn so that you can stretch out all your limbs, hold the pose until you feel your back muscles pull and then ease, and relax. There’s a little clank from over on the counter, and you tilt your head backwards to look at Frisk upside down. (Bad idea—this just makes you dizzy. You sit upright again and slowly shuffle your legs so that you can extract your bathrobe from underneath you, and reposition yourself so you’re lounging on your front, face on your arms and arms on the armrest.)

“What are you making over there now anyway?”

Even a room away you can see them smirk. “Peach cookies.”

“Gracious me, I see that today is going to follow a theme.”

Frisk snickers. “They’ll even have cream in them,” they say, and lift up one of those plastic piping tubes, plump with white frosting that you don’t even doubt a little bit is as close to the consistency of actual semen as they could get it. The cream is probably a lot sweeter though.

“Do you want I should get up and film some of your baking process on my phone so we can send it to Asriel as a come-on?” you ask, grinning.

“Oh my god, yes???? Let’s do that?????” Frisk says, eyes wide, so up you get.

They’ve already got trays and baking sheets out, and a small ice cream scoop for getting perfect balls of dough. You gesture for them to get on with it as you close the rest of your apps and deposit your bathrobe over the back of your chair at the table.

As Frisk hurries to get the dough balls set out on the sheets, you open up your recording app and pan over their body slowly, from the feet up. They’ve still got that sweater dress on, but as they came all over their tights (how on-brand) they instead changed into thick maroon thigh-highs. Very probably, they haven’t bothered with putting any underwear on. The dress isn’t quite short enough to flirt with flashing buttcheek (or better yet, bare pussy) while they’re standing, but they have a generous amount of soft round thigh showing in between the dress’ hem and the tops of those socks.

Admiring that window of soft round thigh revives the recent memory of Frisk wrapping their legs around your waist while you fucked this morning. The press of their heated flesh, and its give—the way you can really sink your fingers into their soft fat, something you can’t replicate with Asriel (his fur is in the way, and _he’s_ got too much muscle under _his_ fat). Your clit pulses, and when you shift your weight the drag of your underwear over your crotch is slick as silk. Heat gathers to your face and your nipples start to harden from your own awareness of just how turned on you actually are.

A movement from Frisk distracts you from fantasizing: They’ve turned, apparently finished getting their cookies all laid out, as they have the side of the tray clasped in one hand. They adjust the dials for the oven and pop the door open, and then they glance towards you from the corner of their eye and their cheek dimples like they’re smiling, and that’s all the warning you get before they sink down into a squat that makes their dress ride up.

They shift. You swallow. Their _extremely deliberate_ wiggling rides their dress up even further, so that you can see the base of their bare ass, and just barely catch little glimpses of their lips, which are swollen and nearly purple and shiny with precome. You grip your camera in both hands so that it won’t shake when you shift your weight.

Frisk then leans their weight forwards onto their knees and slides their legs apart, arching their back in to expose their entire pussy; it is in this pose that they go about setting the cookie trays in the oven, giving you and the camera plenty of time to stare. They’re already almost open enough for you to see into them, and _hard_ too, clit dowsing lazily; they continue to posture and squirm like the minx they are as they mess with the oven, their lips twitching and wanton and dripping. You want very badly to just set the camera aside and slip a hand inside them, fuck them until they squeak.

“Every time you do that,” you say instead, aiming for nonchalant but failing so utterly that you sound openly hungry, “I start thinking again that I ought to start carrying around a pump full of come lube so I can give you what you want.”

Frisk shudders visibly and whines. “Or,” they say, “you could just come over here and _fist me_ while these bake because getting that ready would take too long?”

A warm bead of your own precome trails from beneath your underwear and crawls down the inside of your thigh, making you break out in gooseflesh. You shudder and moan: your nipples are _painfully_ hard. “How long do these need to bake? Do you have everything else for them ready?”

Frisk bobs their head, thrusting backwards on open air as if on reflex. “Just have to set the timer.”

You shift the phone into your right hand just so that you can cup a breast in your left, press your palm over your nipple to tide yourself over. It helps less with the fabric of your bra in the way. “Okay, okay, let me find a place to put this so we can give Ree a show too.”

There’s nowhere on any counter low enough to actually capture the two of you having sex on the floor, and you are _not_ going to waste time trying to find suction cups to tack your phone to the wall, so you just prop up its stand on the floor. Frisk is already done fiddling with the oven by the time you decide on a place, now on all fours with their legs spread and their ass raised up, already panting.

You scoot into place behind them and skim your hands up over their exposed thighs, pausing to squeeze their ass in both hands before you peel their dress up to the small of their back. They hum low and wiggle; you try to rest a little of your weight against the side of the counter so you’re not going to regret kneeling on the hard floor later, and sweep your left hand around to dip two fingers into them.

Frisk sighs and thrusts back onto your hand. Your back prickles: They’re _hot,_ and their precome trails down your wrist as their soft walls squeeze you. The sensation swamps your whole body, it seems, peaking the sensitivity of your breasts and your crotch all at once. You curl your fingers inside them and they arch their back, making a quiet needy sound.

“I said _fist_ me,” they tell you low and plaintive.

“I’m _getting_ there.” You’re hardly sure of what to do with your right hand—keep kneading and petting their ass, or tuck it between your legs so maybe you can come. You squeeze Frisk’s ample cheek until your fingers dig in and they grunt, and then slip your ring finger into their pussy, trailing your pinky and thumb over their plump lips. “We are _not_ stopping to change positions and trying to sixty-nine because you’ve still got dough on your hands, but as soon as I get you off I want your tongue in my _fucking pussy_ and I want to _come in your mouth.”_

Their pussy squeezes on your fingers and _rolls,_ and they make a soft little trill in their chest as they nod rapidly. You’d tell them to stop tightening if they want you to get all four fingers in here, but they probably can’t help it at this point. And anyway, narrow as Frisk’s vagina naturally is, they spend enough time regularly sitting on massive dildos and/or Asriel’s gargantuan cock that they keep themself limber and flexible.

As soon as you tuck your little finger into them they shudder and sigh happily and sink down onto their elbows, undulating their hips to thrust onto your hand. You fold your fingers in close together so you can get them deeper in, trailing your thumb down ‘til you can stroke their clit at the same time. They gasp and clench on you, going all steep like they’re very close.

 You flex your right hand on Frisk’s ass, resettling your grip—and then you feel for the spongy patch along their belly wall, and press the pads of all four fingers against it, rubbing hard.

Frisk yelps and comes in a hot spume, ejaculate nearly burning your thumb and spattering the floor. You pet their walls more gently through their convulsions, waiting for them to stop shuddering before you pull your fingers out. (It takes a while.)

“D’you,” Frisk says faintly, “d’you still want to…?”

You whine and shiver. “If you can manage? Yeah, god, _please,_ it won’t take long.”

They nod, and you wipe your wet hand on your thigh as they sit up. They prop themself up with their back flat against the counter wall, blinking at you, beckoning with one messy hand. “Come fuck my face.”

You nearly come in your underwear right then and there, but with a heroic effort you grip the edge of the counter and struggle to your feet. Frisk reaches up and gets their thumbs under your boyshorts at the sides where they don’t risk getting traces of raw dough anywhere near your vagina, and they pull ‘til the things are stretched and still at your knees.

They tilt their head back to look up at you, and you plant your forearms on the countertop and try to brace yourself.

Frisk kisses your clit, lips wet and warm, and you shout. They slide their tongue into you all soft and sinuous, lapping, pressing at your entrance and sucking, and you _scream_ and erupt.

You can feel them swallowing like they’re guzzling at the neck of a bottle, hands distant and tender on your legs, matching you perfectly as you ride their face rough and helpless. Your vision’s swamped with little lights and the room seems to sway; waves of chill crawl over your whole body from your crotch to your fingertips and your toes.

Frisk licks your pussy long and loving, gentle; it goes from comforting as the end of your orgasm wracks your body to clanging wrong and overwhelming _very_ fast. “Enough,” you choke, and blessedly they stop, pulling their mouth away. They move their hands to your waist and pull you down gently to sit in their lap. You lean on them, dizzy, and drape your boneless arms over their round shoulders. They grin at you: Their cheeks and chin and a good part of their dress’ floppy collar are soaked with your come still, even though it felt to you like they must have drank it all.

“Can I suck your tits?” they ask all warm and breathy. “Or is that still too much right now?”

You lean in to press a muzzy kiss to their forehead. “Just be gentle.”

So they roll the straps of your bra down your shoulders to make it easier to shift the cups, adjust your seat in their lap, and fasten their mouth to your right nipple, moving their right hand up to cup your left breast too.

You close your eyes and stroke their hair and moan. This is perfect: Enough pleasure to swamp your body in waves of warmth but not nearly enough to come from, and nothing playing with your overstimulated pussy. Frisk alternates between suckling and rolling their tongue around you all light and ticklish, and they knead your whole left breast in their hand, only occasionally stopping to press and roll at your nipple with their thumb or pinch gently with thumb and forefinger. You are _so_ going to get chafed by the end of the day but you _extremely do not give a shit_ because the lack of contact ached so bad. Sometime when Asriel is back you’re going to need to ask them both to nurse at the same time—you’ve never tried that yet, and it’d probably feel _amazing._

Predictably, this is when the oven timer goes off. Both of you jump, and _you_ forget the whole concept of dignity and shriek, but Frisk doesn’t bite down: They freeze, and ease their mouth off your nipple very gently.

“Shit,” you say, giggling, and carefully extract yourself from Frisk’s lap. “Shit, I forgot all about the cookies, oh my god.”

While you totter to your feet and head for the sink so you can wash their come off your hand and pull your (soaked-through) underwear back up, Frisk stays on the floor and opens the oven. You run the faucet; they find mitts and retrieve the rack, miraculously unburnt; they set the thing on the counter to cool and join you at the faucet, jostling and warm.

“How much is left of cookie making?” you ask.

“Gotta fill ‘em with cream, roll ‘em in food coloring and sugar, then they’re done,” Frisk says. “Have the stuff in the fridge, it’s ready to go. But I’m still horny. I’m gonna want to go again after that’s done.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less,” you tell them, and lean to kiss their cheek badly. You both giggle, high on closeness and oxytocin. “I’ll help with the cookies so we can get back to the good stuff. And also I think we’ve got enough to send Ree already, so I’ll turn the camera off now.”

“Oh right,” says Frisk, “we were filming,” and you both crack up again.

Frisk gets out the bowls of food coloring and sugar and a knife, and instead of turning your camera off you pick it up and keep taping them. They use the knife to carve little bits out of the center of the cookies (which they then snack on), and fill the holes with cream from the piping tube, gumming the two halves of the cookies together with excess cream. After this they dip the cookies in food coloring to give them that marbled pinkish red-orange peach hue, and roll them around in the sugar bowl. Only then do the cookies go on the plate, where they’ll sit and eventually have a cover put over them to prevent their getting stale.

It takes Frisk about five cookies to fully register that you’re still filming them, and you can tell exactly when the change occurs because they bite their lip and grin and start to fool around. Here they _accidentally-on-purpose_ miss with the piper so that cream instead splurts all over the peach, making it look like come dripping over an ass; there they squirt the cream all over their fingers instead so that it drips and trails. And, _quelle surprise_ , it turns out that your earlier guess that they’d made the cream as close in consistency to fresh semen as they could was right on the money.

“Oops,” they say aloud in an almost-whisper, half-giggling, and they lift their hands to their mouth one after the other to lap half-heartedly at the thick white goop.

“Do a couple more just so he really gets the picture what you want as soon as he comes home,” you say as dryly as you possibly can. Frisk doubles over snickering.

“It’s not like you don’t want it too,” they say angelically, and honestly they have you there. If someone demanded to know what your _absolute_ favorite form of sex is you would answer that you like getting eaten out the best, and that answer would be honest, but there’s still nothing quite like Asriel’s body interlocking with yours: His sheer heat, his sheer _girth_ pressing all around the mouth of your pussy while he’s inside you, his heartbeat against your walls and the way he twitches and bucks in your grip while he pumps you full of come. And getting flooded with hot come until your belly is so full you expect to be bloated with it, filled up until you overflow around Asriel’s dick—there’s a reason you keep damn well asking him to come inside you even though you know you’re baiting cramps later if you can’t clean up well.

Frisk interrupts your fantasies by adding “Asriel and I can drink it out of you afterwards anyway” and you can’t stop yourself from whining.

They pick up the second to last remaining cookie and fill it with cream, deliberately spilling more over their hands and then lifting their fingers up to lick off, not breaking eye contact with you the entire time.

“Oh, fuck you,” you breathe lovingly. Frisk smiles as if to say that that’s the idea and dips the in-progress cookie, setting it to rest with its fellow finished peaches.

They cover their hands in an egregious amount of cream again on the final cookie, but this time you’re ready: You set the camera down on the table and reach out to catch their wrist, taking one moment to enjoy their blank surprise before you gently tow the hand to your lips and slip your tongue out to trail it across their palm.

Frisk _squeaks._ You lap cream away and then lick up to the joint between their first and middle fingers, wiggle your tongue there where you know full well it’s sensitive, and trail little licks and kisses up their forefinger, deliberately missing splotches of cream so that you’ll have an excuse to gently close your mouth around it. You do that and suck, stroking the pad of their finger steadily with the flat of your tongue all the while.

They go red all the way to the ears and stare spellbound, breath going all jagged: You could swear you see their nipples standing out even through the thick weave of their sweater dress. Herein lies one of the distinct advantages of being the vanilla one—it makes surprising your partners with maneuvers like this extra effective, because it never quite occurs to either of them to expect it from you.

You switch to sucking Frisk’s middle finger, and they whimper very quietly. Your whole crotch is throbbing in waves of heat, you’re soaked and dripping with the insides of your thighs slick to the knees, but they’re trembling with their pupils blown out and their breath coming in quick huffs: They are at _least_ as horny as you are, maybe even more.

At last you let them go, and you shut your phone’s camera off and save the file. “Finish that last cookie and get cleaned up, then how about you meet me in the adjustable chair,” you say casually. “I’m going to go wash the sugar out of my mouth so I can suck you off, and get a towel so I can ride you.”

Frisk shudders all over and moans, squirming where they stand. _Please. I want to feel your mouth, I want to feel your pussy._

“I’m probably going to be incredibly useless after this,” you warn them, “but I really want to touch you, and I want you inside me too.”

_I can handle the cleanup, don’t worry,_ they of the boundless energy assure you. _You don’t have to think about anything except the sex._

You fake-swoon to hide that you’re already on the verge of orgasm just from all this mutual teasing, and pass them to get to the sink. Much as you hate to draw this out any longer than you already are, it _is_ important to do a thorough job cleaning out your mouth and washing your hands just so you can be sure you’re not risking each other’s health.

The chair in question, which is at a right angle from the long sofa in the living room, is big enough to seat Asriel and has seen quite a lot of fucking. Its width and the way the back and leg rest can be adjusted with a lot of freedom make it the ideal stage for PIV with Frisk—it’s easy to get their hips at the right angle without having to bother with stacking pillows under them as you would in bed, and there’s still enough room for your legs on either side of them. You spread a couple clean towels over the seat and lumbar portions of the cushions; you and Frisk have spent enough time experimenting for you to know that if you ejaculate while you’re riding them you’re liable to get come _everywhere,_ either from the spray or from it dripping down Frisk’s belly and sides. Better to avoid that if you can.

You have barely got said towels in place when Frisk arrives, naked but for a front-hook bra pinstriped in warm coffee colors, the thick cream stripe topping the cups rimmed in nearly black doily lace, little bows of brown floss marking where the straps meet the cups. It looks good against the contrast of their warm golden skin and their dark chest hair. Their face and their chest and their belly are already flushed pink with anticipation, and their thighs are shiny wet.

“God, you’re beautiful,” you say, and you reach out to them. Frisk steps into your arms and tilts their head for your kiss, grasping at your waist. Their breath is warm on your cheek and their skin is heated against yours, their body vibrating. They nibble your lower lip and suck on your tongue when you slip it into their mouth.

They break the kiss and roam, tracing their lips down the line of your jaw and leaving lingering kisses down your throat, tonguing heavily at your pulse until your knees are quaking. You knead their shoulders, skim your hands down to their elbows and pull at their right arm ‘til you can lace your fingers with theirs, guide their hand between your legs to show them what a dripping mess you are.

“I can’t wait,” you gasp into their ear. “Please let me come. I want to take my time sucking you off, I can’t do that if I just want to sit on you, so—oh!”

Frisk just hums and squeezes your hand and untangles theirs from yours, sliding their fingers between your thighs to smear your precome all over the throbbing length of your lips. Their middle finger slides into you easily—you shudder, your mouth curves automatically into a smile and your eyes flutter closed. You came so _fast_ earlier, you didn’t get to enjoy the sensation of their tongue inside you enough to satiate your longing for closeness; Frisk’s fingertip dragging firm and gentle over the shallow parts of your vagina feels wonderful, and all the more so for the promise that their clit will take its place in the near future.

Your knees shake and you cling to Frisk’s shoulders and spill into their hand. They pump their finger briskly in and out to ride you through, and you sway your hips to chase them ‘til you’ve had enough, gripping carpet between your toes and shuddering to a stop.

“Good?” they ask against your throat.

You shiver and sigh happily and hug them. “Yes. Thank you. Now I can actually _concentrate._ Go ahead and sit down, I want you in my mouth.”

Frisk shivers back and gently pulls away from your arms to sit down in the chair, scooting back and wiggling into a comfortable pose. They pull their feet up onto the seat and spread their legs, and then cock their chin back to look at you all flushed and smiling and breathing rough, pale blue eyes hazy under heavy lids and their tenderly disheveled bangs.

You kneel in front of the chair on yet another folded-up towel, grateful for the carpet beneath it and your feet that will keep this position from hurting your joints if you wind up staying here for a while. You rest your hands on Frisk’s knees and slowly stroke up the smooth, clean-shaven skin of their full thighs; then you lean a little further in, close enough for your breasts to graze the fabric of the chair, and lift Frisk’s legs up to prop them against your shoulders. Their skin is deliciously warm, and the press of their body to yours hums contentment through your chest even as it makes your pussy throb impatiently. You turn your head to kiss and lick at Frisk’s leg to make them sigh, and then turn your attention to their pussy.

They are absolutely every ounce as much a mess as they were in the kitchen when you found yourselves unable to wait. Their clit is fat with blood and stands out eager as an upraised thumb—on-the-nose as that comparison is, given that it’s about that size and shape when Frisk is fully hard—and it wags lazily in the air like a slow metronome. Their whole crotch, their lower belly, their ass pressed against the chair are all flushed reddish pink; their pubes are soaked through and their pussylips are swollen and shining with precome.

You kind of want to shrug their legs back off your shoulders and spend a few minutes kissing them all over, but Frisk is watching you pleadingly and you’re not mean enough to tease them like that after they got you off right away when you asked. So instead you reach in with both hands and run your fingertips over their hot wet skin.

Frisk twitches under your hands and sighs. You curl your fingers in and lay your thumbs to their lips instead, sweeping them up slow and gentle to just under their clit. With them throbbing beneath your touch, you carefully work your forefingers in between the folds of their labia and lay them open, tracing your fingertips all the way down between their inner and outer lips. You roll their inner lips in between your forefingers and thumbs, and they shiver and squeeze your shoulders under their knees. Underneath that squishy layer of fat their muscles go taut and relax and go taut again, and it’s so nice to be close enough to them to be able to tell how you’re affecting them.

You bend in and lick at them, still running fingertips minutely over them: You have to tilt your head to the side to keep from hitting their clit with your nose and it’s not very comfortable on your neck or shoulders to stay like this, but it’s worth it to hear the little noise they make when you rub your mouth all silken over their wet lips, when you flirt with their entrance with the tip of your tongue. Their pubes tickle against your nose and the sweet musky taste of them suffuses your mouth, thick and mild.

Frisk sighs and shifts just slightly beneath you, so you sit up, stretch your neck and shoulders a little and leave wet kiss marks on their soft belly that are more their own precome than your saliva. You watch their head loll back against the chair with a quiet little _thunk_ through the valley between their breasts, and your pussy _burns_ to hear the rasp of their exhale.

They’re staring down at you through the veil of their eyelashes, and you don’t need them to use their hands or their voice to ask _what’s the holdup?_ because that hungry gaze tells the story loud and clear. You keep playing at them with your thumbs while you fold your lips into your mouth one after the other to make sure they’re properly wet, and then you slip two fingers into Frisk’s pussy. In the next breath you bow your head back down so you can lap at their clit, and then gently wrap your lips about it, mindful of your teeth.

Above you Frisk’s breath stutters, and their pussy pulls on your fingers gently. Yours pulses as if in response, and you fidget at the feel of another drop of precome rolling down your thigh. The _only_ way to make this moment better would be if you were crouched over Asriel with his cock or his tongue inside you—you shiver and squirm and remind yourself that Frisk will be inside you soon enough, and crook your fingers deep in them, dragging pads and knuckles over their soft walls.

You lean further in so that the tip of your nose is flirting with their pubes again, and roll your tongue around their twitching clit rather than suck: Frisk has literally no concept of _too much_ but you want to drag this out, and it’s nice to be able to hear them panting without trying to listen for their breath over the sloppy wet noises sucking makes.

But ah, god, it aches in you: The rich thickness of their precome, their heartbeat under your fingers and against your tongue, their heady scent taking on a salty tang as they slip closer to orgasm.

They’re holding their hips very still as you work them in what’s probably a titanic show of patience and self-control; usually when they’re eating you out you can’t help but thrust into their face a little, but that’s harder for them to do safely. Once when you were both younger and less experienced they tried to fuck their clit on your mouth but accidentally hit you in the chin, and you managed to save their clit from your own teeth by biting the inside of your lip rather painfully. It was very not sexy, and your mouth wound up out of commission for the better part of a week as the cut healed, even sped along by Asriel’s magic. Frisk would probably hate to be blueballed by stupid sex injuries at a time like this, and you would probably die of shame if you wound up blueballing them like that.

Frisk makes a very quiet sound, and you flick your thumbs over their lips and suck on them lightly: No getting distracted, not now. You venture in deeper with your fingertips and worry them with your tongue—you can’t get in _really_ deep with your hands, not deep enough to make them come at a touch, but from the shuddering of their breath you hope they appreciate the thought anyway.

You lift your head and then lower it as you feel their leg muscles tense. Their clit thumps against your tongue, and you press down with your fingertips, roll your lips back up the length of them and then sink back down until the tip of your nose presses into their pubes, flick your tongue against them the same way you’d kiss the mouth on their face.

Frisk tightens on you, pulls, tenses up with their whole body—and shudders and sighs.

You lift yourself up onto your elbows, carefully retracting your fingers; their right knee slides softly from your shoulder, the foot plopping onto the floor next to your folded legs. You wipe your chin on your wrist—they didn’t come as extravagantly as they did in the kitchen, but your face is still pretty wet—and admire your handiwork.

Frisk is flushed and smiling, chest still rising and falling deeply with their breath. They lift one hand from the arm of the chair and beckon to you, and you push yourself up—groaning as your knees protest—so that they can wrap their arms around you and pull you in. They’re still shivery, body temperature still soaring, and you bask in their warmth as they kiss your mouth and face brief and soft, over and over, sucking their own taste off your lips. You press your forehead to theirs so the frames of their glasses press uncomfortably into your eyebrows and the bridge of your nose and stroke their face and arms, try not to fidget too obviously. You can’t wait much longer to seal your bodies together, but you can’t do that unless Frisk is hard enough.

They feather fingertips through your hair and duck their face to press kisses over your throat, pressing the chain of your locket into your clavicle in a way that’s almost uncomfortable. They rest there for a moment and then nuzzle; your pussy clenches on itself and your nipples scrape against the fabric of your bra as they get even harder and you make some embarrassingly soppy little whimpering noise.

“Do you want me?” Frisk breathes against your neck, and the chills you get from it are so sharp you feel almost feverish. It twinges in your clit, pounds in your mouth, spurs the lazy tide of precome slipping down your thighs all the way from inside you.

“I want you,” you tell them, voice all cracked and needy. “I want you inside me as deep as you can go, I want your heat to scour me clean, I want to kiss your tits and make you come and come all over you.”

Frisk moves one hand from the back of your neck and you can hear them fumbling for the lever on the side of the chair, their short nails ticking against the metal. There’s the soft hum of a very quiet motor and then they’re sinking backwards, guiding you down after them ‘til they’re just a little higher than horizontal and you’re positioned awkwardly over them.

You straighten up and step to the side of the chair so the foot rest won’t clothesline you, and then reach for the lever to adjust it: Slowly you raise Frisk’s legs and hips up so that they’re higher than their upper body, which will give you an easier seat when they spread their legs for you. They take a moment to wriggle in the adjusted chair to find a comfortable position, then reach out to give your hand a squeeze and offer you a smile.

So you clamber up to straddle them. Positioning your legs is the worst part of fucking in this chair—there’s _room_ on either side of Frisk, plenty of it, this thing’s Boss Monster-sized, but the angle of the seat and footrest that’s perfect for making their clit sittable means that _you’re_ at a slightly weird angle. In the end you stretch one leg out and fold the other underneath you, based on which ankle and which knee ache least right now.

Crouched over Frisk, you hold your pussy open and lower yourself carefully; they reach down between you to hold their lips back too. Positioning has gotten a lot easier since the first time you tried this months back, but you’d still rather be careful to avoid the risk of crushing them or bending them in a way they’re not supposed to bend.

The white-hot tip of them touches you, a pleasant shock that pulls fresh wetness from the depths of you and runs a shiver up the length of your body. Slowly, slowly, you sink down—Frisk pulls their fingers back to make room for you to sit, and you remove yours too just before you would have trapped them between your bodies. Frisk makes a faint little helpless sound: They fit into you like a key in a latch, molten and throbbing and easy.

You sit astride them for a moment, just holding your hips still, making sure of your balance. Beneath you Frisk grips the side of the chair in one hand and straightens their glasses with the other, pushing their hair out of their face. They’re already disheveled and lovely, flush-faced and sweaty, eyes unfocused. Their breasts rise and fall with their deep breaths. If you only had the stamina to match them, you think you could sit here and ride them forever.

You reach out and tap lightly at the hook between their breasts. “Can I undo this?”

Frisk takes a moment to think about it and then nods. With careful fingertips you unhook their bra: Their breasts sag slightly towards either side of their ribcage, hemmed in by their upper arms. They’re still mostly covered by the cups but the areola of their left shows around the edge of the pretty cream-colored border, the coarse hairs around the edge already plastered to them by sweat.

You start to rock your hips back and forth very slightly: It’s very easy to just pull yourself off of Frisk completely, so it’s better to build up to a good rhythm bit by bit to avoid that risk. It’s also excellent teasing: They’re soft and slick and _warm_ in you as you stir yourself on them, tip almost but not quite flirting with your g-spot, and where they’re too small to stretch and put pressure on your entrance all the way around, your movements press them into the front and back wall of your pussy over and over, burning little jolts of pleasure building you up towards an orgasm that’s all but in sight.

They’re wet and you’re wetter, and the quicker you grind on their clit the louder the sticky noises of your sliding through each other’s precome. Your thrusts ripple gently through Frisk’s body, shaking them minutely back and forth over the chair: It’s most visible in their breasts, which wobble from the inertia but are constrained by the unhooked bra still lying atop them from flopping everywhere. Even _you_ find that uncomfortable, and your breasts are less than half the size of theirs; it would have to be painful for them.

Frisk waits for you to settle into a rhythm to start moving, the better to match you: They thrust their hips shallowly upwards as you move back and forth, gently jostling in and out as you drag them against your walls. You’ve found that this is remarkably effective despite any preconceptions their size might have fostered in you—sex really does all come down to technique in the end.

You lean forwards just enough so that it’s not a stretch to rest your hands on Frisk’s sides and slowly skim them up, up, under bra cups to settle on breast. Your hands are too small to cover them all the way, but they’re warm and sweat-slick and wonderfully _squishy,_ so easy to sink your fingers into. And their lovely large nipples are a joy to play with, to run your fingertips over and roll under the pads of your hands, to squeeze softly between your thumbs and the sides of your hands.

Frisk’s breath hitches—they’ve started to pound inside you, they must be close again—and it does not surprise you when they lift a hand from the chair to touch your hip, but it _does_ take you off guard when they slide it down between your legs instead of reaching up to play with your breasts. Their thumb rolls slow over your clit and your whole body jolts with livewire pleasure—underneath you Frisk is panting hard, shivering, coming or on the verge of coming, and their touch and the view and their clit buried in you pound in your pussy and your breasts like thunderclaps on the horizon.

“Just a little more,” you gasp out loud, a lot more desperate than you mean it to be. “I’m gonna come, I want you to make me come.”

Frisk nods hazily and rests their hand firm against your lower belly, giving just their thumb enough space to play with you: They stroke down your clit’s hood all the way to the root, roll their thumb back up to play the pad over your tip, and then press with _just_ the right amount of firmness. Heat flashes up your back and your spine curls automatically inwards and you come _everywhere,_ soaking Frisk’s crotch and your thighs and the towels underneath you, sending sticky ribbons of fluid streaking across their belly.

They’re not fully inside you anymore, only barely touching you now—gone flaccid, then. You didn’t even notice when they came.

You don’t have the energy to move, so you’re left sitting in Frisk’s very sticky lap struggling to catch your breath. They wipe their hand on the outside of their thigh and fix their bra, then twist to reach for the lever to adjust the chair’s footrest.

Very slowly they push themself up, careful not to dislodge you, and almost nose to nose they peer into your face. When you don’t say anything, they reach up and gently touch your face, grazing their knuckles down the line of your jaw.

“Do I need to carry you to the shower?” they ask.

“Maybe,” you rasp, and start to giggle.

 

 

They do, in fact, have to carry you to the shower, as well as helping you rinse and getting you a glass of water: You didn’t squirt _every_ time you came today, but _nearly every time_ plus how wet you usually get as a matter of course and all the sweat inherent to the intensive aerobic activity that is sexual intercourse means that you are definitely courting dehydration by now.

After you are washed and dried and into clean boxers and a t-shirt, you curl up on the sofa with a full pitcher of iced tea and noise-canceling headphones and your phone browser open to your favorite noise generator. You proceed to listen to quiet rain pattering and a distant wind chime with your forehead pressed against the back of the sofa and three blankets over you, offering weight and warmth and shelter from the light.

You could use this time to edit your most recently filmed homemade sex vid so that it’s ready to send to Asriel, but that’s a work-intensive process and you don’t need to get super horny again while watching it—you still need to replenish your fluids, honestly. And you don’t want to spend so much time staring at bright stuff on your screen that you’ll give yourself eyestrain; you’re overstimulated enough already as it is.

So mostly, you rest and you nap. Frisk comes to sit with you for a little while, their weight and body heat comforting against your side even through the blankets; they disappear again, though, after maybe a half hour or something.

You make your way through most of the iced tea, as well as the can of pineapple juice that _mysteriously_ found its way onto the table next to it. After a while you get out your phone and set your chat client to low-contrast, flipping through your messages.

Alphys replied to your parting shot from this morning with a gif of an anime girl sipping tea that really only comes off as smarmy as it does because of the context and because it’s Alphys, Queen of Smarm. You flip through your own folder of reaction gifs to find one of a character making an aw-shucks gesture in response and send it.

Asriel has messaged you to tell you that _I am so bored, I am gogigng to die of boredom, WHY can;t I just go homr already,_ definitely typed from his phone given all the typos. Alphys got him a phone with a pull-out keyboard so that he doesn’t claw up the thing’s screen trying to type through touch commands, but even having keys doesn’t help much with his giant meat hands. He does better with a full-sized computer keyboard—maybe you or Frisk should talk to Alphys about getting him a notebook laptop-sized machine with phone functionality. Asriel’s pockets are big enough for it.

_Hang in there,_ you tell him. _It’s going to be a while before I can finish it but Frisk and I made something special for you today._

_Uh-oh,_ Asriel replies right away.

_I must confess, I am a little glad that it isn’t ready yet now—this isn’t something you would want to open in a crowded boardroom._

Asriel replies to this with a bug-eyed blushing emoji.

You hope that you have not managed to give your partner a hard-on in the middle of a crowded boardroom; Asriel tends to wear his royal robes to official politics business and his dick is _really_ obvious in any sort of skirt once its attention has been gotten. _Do we need to talk about something else so you don’t cream your pretty dress in the middle of work?_

_Yuore not exactly helping with that cHara,_ Asriel replies swiftly, and you look at your own word choice and grin a little. _But I’m jusg waiting around anyway, I can still go jakc off in the bathroom if its hTAT big fo a problem._

_Okay, we can get back to you creaming your pretty dress if you want to,_ you say.

_charaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa_

_I kid. Honestly I’m on break from sex right now—need to drink more stuff so that I don’t crumble up like dead leaves and blow away the next time Frisk wants to go._

_Woh. Theyre really that clingu today?_

You make a face. _Am I to take it as confirmed that I should under no circumstances check mainstream social media outlets because I would just give myself an anxiety attack, or work myself into such a rage over how disgusting humans are that I might froth my way into a vagal reaction? Frisk has told me a little about the situation, so…_

_Ya super don’t look,_ Asriel agrees, adding one of those emoji faces with the closed eyes and flat mouth. _As far as I cn see the internets basiclaly what Alphys would say is the Bad Opinion Zone._

Well, you _did_ expect as much. Still, you grit your teeth and punch in a line of knife emojis anyway, because you would tear the world apart for Frisk and the monsters if you could and never regret it. Then you stop gritting your teeth because that’s not good for them and will give you a headache.

_Thats a mood,_ Asriel replies. _How are they holding up?_

_Superficially they seem to be coping,_ you tell him. _Instead of hurting themself or doing anything self-destructive or devolving into a bad brains vortex, they seem to be looking for distractions. Mostly sex and food so far today. We’ve spent a Lot of time fucking and if we’re not having sex they’re either eating or baking. I’m glad that Frisk’s not really the type to wake up panicking from delayed triggers, or tonight would probably be ugly._

_Golly :( Have they scheduled a therapy appointment yet?_

You frown and rest your hands for a moment. _I don’t think they have. I don’t know if that’s occurred to them. But I’ll get on their case to do it—they could use it, just so they can have some time to process in between distractions._

It’s hard to tell how much of Frisk’s relative reluctance to lean on their therapist as readily as Asriel does on his is because they don’t want to be a burden, and how much is because the first therapist they had when you were all kids was what Asriel might call a bad egg. (The terms you would use are significantly less polite.)

_But anywya, abuot all that sex youre having…_ Asriel types, appending a line of eyes. You laugh a little.

_There’s definitely been a lot of it. You’ll get your chance to join in when you get back. In addition to being stressed out Frisk has also just missed us, so I would expect to get a workout when you come home if I were you._

_Mercy me :O_

_Shhhhhh. No Mercy now. Only Fuck._

_CHARA,_ Asriel types as you giggle at your own joke. _Sto p being cute thsi instent mixter!!!!_

_But it refused,_ you shoot back. _But THEY refused, rather._

_I hvae to go do work now unfortunetely,_ Asriel says. _But I miss you guys and I hope I’ll get to see you again relaly soon ok??_

_Do your best out there,_ you tell him. _Frisk has been showing off the mess you made of all their tights, and I feel obligated to forewarn you that we are both expecting a repeat performance when you get back._

_Gee whiz,_ says Asriel, like a big dorky loser (which he is), _guess I better start saving up soon, huh!_

You smirk and enter the emojis for a pointing forefinger and an ok sign, but Asriel doesn’t reply; he must have already turned off his phone.

 

 

When you finally get up, Frisk is braiding rows of dough in rainbow colors into a challah loaf.

It’s later than you realized—even if, as you suspect, Frisk got things for their bread ready while they were baking other stuff earlier, letting dough rise takes a lot of time. (This much you have absorbed courtesy of living with Frisk despite that you have hard limits on how much you’re willing to do in the kitchen.) Outside the window the sky is starting to turn colors; early sunset glints off the frames of Frisk’s glasses. They’ve got flour smutches all up their forearms so that the faded scar on their wrist almost blends into them.

Like you, they appear to have mostly given up on clothes, and are wearing a slightly shrunken and faded cotton t-shirt with CUM DUMP STAR in block letters down the front, stretched across their breasts and crumpling into the places where their front and back make rolls when they shift or bend. They have on a set of panties that match the pinstriped coffee bra—which you surmise they must, then, still be wearing—and a pair of knee-high socks utterly incongruous with the rest of their attire, powder pink with a cheerful print of cartoon daisies, more saturated pink toes and heels and a stripe around the top. The socks don’t quite make it all the way up to where their round calves taper inwards to their knees but are not sagging down their legs, so Frisk has probably borrowed the power of that friend to fashionable people who are bothered to shave their legs, sock glue.

Their movements twisting and folding the pillars of bread dough are easy and deft; it does not take them long at all to negotiate the six colorful snakes into a braided oval. They pull a brush over to themself from across the counter but don’t get out a bowl of egg white to paint the top of the loaf yet—they typically let their dough rise for at least another hour or so before throwing it into the oven, and will prepare the crust to bake all nice and shiny then.

Frisk straightens up and steps away from the counter island, winding their fingers together and stretching. They pad over to the sink first to rinse flour off their hands and arms, and only once they have wiped themself dry on a washcloth do they pinch the sides of their shirt and pull it down to cover the six inches or so of belly that it exposed as it slowly rode up. After this they pivot adroitly and march over to the pantry, pulling out potatoes, ginger root, matzah mix, and olive oil that they set on the countertop. Their line back across the kitchen to the fridge has them retrieving a grater, a frying pan, a spatula, and a mixing bowl from the cabinets, and from the fridge itself they withdraw eggs, lemon juice, cabbage, zucchini, and carrots.

Especially after talking to Asriel, Frisk’s rapid movements from one task to the next are obviously the work of one trying to outrun their own stress and keep too busy to think. The only times they’ve bothered to slow down for more than five minutes today has been when they’re in a postcoital haze or otherwise cuddling with you.

So you approach slowly, lean your weight on the kitchen table for a while and observe them first. “Do you want me to help you grate any of that shit? You’ve been up on your feet an awful lot already today, it would suck if you burnt out at any point.”

Frisk pauses and looks over their shoulder at you for a long moment, probably considering. “Okay,” they say then, grabbing for the grater, which they hold out in your direction. “I’ll wash.”

So you take your place beside them: Frisk stands at the sink, going over vegetables with water and sometimes a knife to remove bruised or discolored bits. When they’re done they hand the vegetables to you, and you use the grater to shave off strips of them until the entire vegetable has fallen into the bowl, ready to be mixed.

“We’re going to need to go shopping soon,” you observe. “Maybe for more baking ingredients too if you want to keep making things this week.”

Frisk makes a soft hum of agreement.

“We should probably call Toriel and figure out when we want to see her soon too—to get some of the excess we can’t finish by ourselves off our hands, and also just because I’m sure she’s missed you a lot.” You finish off a carrot and take a zucchini from Frisk instead. “Do you need the peeler for the potatoes or have you got one?”

Frisk makes a grabby hand at you, so you set the grater down and open the drawer to fish for the thing, then hand it to them once it turns up. That settled, you get back to shredding zucchini.

“Also… do you have your next therapist appointment set yet?” Frisk goes still for a moment next to you, then deliberately resumes washing vegetables. You know they’ll know you saw that. “If you don’t, maybe you should set one soon? So far you seem to be dealing with work stress okay just with sex and staying busy, but you probably need some time to just rest too, so… I know I wouldn’t be very helpful if you got too drained for any more Activities and have to lie in.”

“That’s not true,” Frisk says, and they lean in so that their shoulder touches your upper arm. “You always help.”

“I don’t know about that—I mean, I’d have to call Mom to come make food for us at our age,” you warn, smiling. “Or call Sans or Papyrus to bring us takeout. They do that enough already when I’m by myself.”

“Oh no,” Frisk says, joking and warm. They hand you a peeled potato. “I’ll send a message about setting up an appointment. It would be hypocritical of me, after all the lecturing I did about how you need to reach out to everyone else more. It’s just… I didn’t want to worry you, and I thought I could deal with it. I’m sorry I worried you anyway.”

Your hands are covered in all kinds of vegetable nonsense, so you can’t reach out and sweep Frisk’s hair away from their cheek when you lean in to kiss them there. “It’s okay. I think worrying about each other’s just kinda in the job description when it comes to our relationship. Thanks for listening, though. I know I can’t really be of much help here so I just want to make sure you can have room to really vent more, or work through things with.”

Frisk hums and ducks to rest their forehead on your shoulder for just a moment: “Thank _you.”_ They stay a breath longer, then straighten up, their hair swishing soft against your skin like a parting kiss. It makes the hair on your lower back prickle. “Do you want to keep chopping cabbage when I’m working on frying these? We can save the extra and I’ll use it to make slaw with tomorrow.”

“Well, I can hardly turn down a chance to practice my knife skills,” you joke. Frisk laughs softly, and you grin, and the return to preparing for latkes is comfortable and quiet.

 

 

Because at the end of the day mercy is still Frisk’s byline, they wait for you until after dinner, instead taking the time to contact their therapist, make plans with Toriel, and write a shopping list up with you.

It’s only once you’ve cleaned up the dishes and the table and put the fresh bread loaf away with everything else Frisk has baked today that they reach out to tap your shoulder, trailing their fingers down to your wrist as you turn to them.

You’ve already got some idea from that lingering touch and the way they’re smiling that the answer will be _sex,_ but you still swallow and ask “What is it?” to set them up.

Frisk tilts their chin down to look at you sidelong. _I just remembered that there’s something I promised I would do for you today that I haven’t really made good on yet. Are you still interested in that, or would you rather wait until tomorrow?_

You can fucking _feel_ the heat spreading in your face. Sensation crests in your pussy just exactly like a wave swelling, a slow throb from deep inside you and the back of your lips up to your entrance and your clit: Your lips and clit fill with blood and start to beat lazily, precome dews along you, you think you can even feel your walls shifting in anticipation. Your nipples going stiff _already_ buzzes against the fabric of your bra in a way that’s almost unpleasant, clear warning that you’ve gotten too much attention there already today and tomorrow is going to be very awkward.

“If you’re offering,” you say, smiling mostly on one side, “I’m most certainly not going to refuse.”

Frisk gently reaches up to cup your face in both hands, squishes at your cheeks, and pulls those hands back again so that they can speak.

_I’m going to go clean up and get ready then,_ they say. _If you want to get ready in any way you should go ahead and do that too, and let’s meet up in bed in about ten or fifteen minutes?_

“That should be good, yeah,” you tell them.

In your case, getting ready entails taking a quick piss, taking one last long drink to forestall potential dehydration, and setting a water bottle on your bedside table next to the toy Frisk gave you, so you can drink more later even if you don’t want to move. Getting ready also entails taking a quick five-minute dip in the shower just to rinse off and freshen up. You do your best to keep your hair dry so it’s not gonna get the pillows wet or be a disaster when you wake up tomorrow.

When you return from the bathroom Frisk is also here, crouched on the floor and rummaging through their toy drawer. The sound of the door makes them perk up and turn to smile at you cutely; they hold up one finger and gesture for you to get ready, so you lift yourself up onto the bed with its nice fresh sheets (that you don’t doubt at all you and Frisk are going to completely destroy, necessitating your changing them again tomorrow. Why is your sex life like this).

They heft themself up onto the bed about a minute or so later with a shiny purple toy clenched in one hand and something smaller and vaguely ovoid held in the other. You give them a Questioning Eyebrow and they giggle.

“This isn’t for you,” they say cheerfully, and set the two objects down on the sheets. _It’s for me. You’ve been keeping me company really well today, even though I know it’s got to be a lot since I only just got back and you’ve got to adjust to having people around again… and, like, ALL the sex we’ve had today has been stuff I like or my ideas for things I wanted to try. All you really asked for was to get eaten out and we didn’t get to do much of that, so…_

“In my defense,” you interject, “you begging to get fisted in the middle of the kitchen was really goddamn hot and very worth coming in less than a minute.”

Frisk raises both hands to their cheeks and turns to the side, all dimples, then flaps a hand at you fake-bashfully. _Well, anyway, we’ve spent so much of the day on me, so I want to take some real time to only focus on you. So the vibe is for me, I’ll just sit on it because I like something in there and you can enjoy getting eaten out without worrying about whether I’m getting to come too. It has a remote control, though, so if you want to mess around with it from time to time you can._ Here they wink, solicitous. _There’s no settings on here that I don’t like, just don’t turn it off._

And they point out to you the buttons that change the vibrator’s intensity, as well as the ones that control the pulse setting, before handing you the remote. You are kind of glad that the one they gave you is a lot simpler.

“I’m probably going to forget to do much with this while we’re actually fucking,” you warn them.

_That’s fine,_ Frisk says, eyes dark with lust and very merry. _If you forget, I’ll just take it to mean that I’m doing a really good job._

You almost whine, but force a smirk instead. “My, my, we _are_ confident tonight. But you always have been a braggart in bed, haven’t you? Why don’t you come kiss me instead of just sweet-talking me, and we’ll see what happens with the remote.”

Frisk giggles and slips their panties off. They position themself over the toy with spread knees and grip it by the base, sink onto it with a happy sigh; you watch the sparkly purple shaft vanish into them and their satiated smile and squirm a little.

“Turn it on?” they say, batting their eyelashes at you.

“You didn’t tell me which _that_ button is,” you say, and they laugh.

“It’s the big one by your thumb.”

“Okay then,” you say, and you click it.

Frisk flinches a little, face scrunching up in delight; you can hear the soft buzz of the toy inside them. Your pussy throbs in response.

“Lay back,” Frisk says soft, inching towards you on hands and knees. “Let me make you feel nice.”

You shiver and reach out to them, cupping their face as they approach. Their skin is as heated as it is soft. “I’ve been waiting.”

They gently bring you down to the pillows and kiss you—your mouth, your cheeks, your forehead and eyelids. Their hands slip from your shoulders down your arms as they kiss along the side of your throat. You stroke their hair and their upper back and close your eyes.

On the internet you still sometimes see people call porn stars technicians for their thorough knowledge of the human body and execution of that knowledge onscreen; that would, you suppose, make Frisk an artist. This foreplay is hardly a spectacle compared to some of the more ambitious shit they get you into or the acrobatics you suspect them and Asriel of, but they’re so in tune with you—the kisses they trail down your body are varied, some faint brushes of lips over your skin and others firmer. Sometimes their tongue flirts over your flesh and sometimes they settle over something they can draw into their mouth and suck or nibble, leaving the little kiss marks that will last for hours. And though they seem to be choosing their actions by whim, it’s always _always_ exactly what your body craves, the exact right choice to make you shiver or gasp or whine. They know you so well.

You grope vaguely for the adjustment buttons on their toy remote. Frisk gasps into the valley between your breasts, hands clenching on your waist. They writhe between your thighs as they drift further down your body, their breasts pressed into your lower belly, their breathing all lush and exaggerated and your strong suspicion that they’re coming right now all peaking in the insistent thrum of your pussy.

“Frisk,” you plead. “Frisk, I want you.”

They sweep kisses down your belly as they slide further down the bed. As soon as they’re positioned in a lazy curl of limbs with their face and shoulders between your legs, they finally lower their mouth to you.

You grip the sheets with fingers and toes and moan. Frisk doesn’t waste any time here: They lick from the base of your lips to your clit once, twice, three times, hot and wet and _exactly_ what you needed; then their tongue delves into you and you arch your spine and yell. They rub their upper lip against your clit and squeeze your hips between their palms as they fuck you: Watching them hazily from between your breasts, they’re a _sight,_ softly mussed dark hair framing their flushed round cheeks, black eyelashes occasionally lifting from their lovely golden skin to reveal their pale eyes: Pupils huge with lust, fixed on your face.

Their lip coasts silken over your clit while they kiss your pussy with all the tender romance they possess, and you squeak out their name and come in a rush, shaking all over.

Frisk presses soft little kisses over your thighs and your lips as you struggle for breath, then sits up while you relax. Their mouth and chin and most of their throat are glossy from your come and/or precome, and there’s wet splatters all over their CUM DUMP STAR t-shirt—it’s really one hell of a look, if amusingly apropos. They adjust the toy in their own pussy first before they strip the shirt off and throw it haphazardly in the direction of the hamper.

_You’ve been coming so fast today,_ they observe as if impressed.

“I _missed_ you,” you complain. “I’ve barely even masturbated over the past week or so, I’ve been so listless, and then _you_ hit the house like a sex typhoon. Of course I’m not going to be able to keep up a marathon.” You swallow. “Please let me come more.”

Frisk chuckles at this, rich and genuine. Your whole heart swells up with fondness for their ridiculous person. _I’d be happy to._

They lower themself back down to hands and knees, slowly twisting until they’re lying flat on their stomach again; this time they start kissing from your knee back up your thigh to your crotch.

They’re softer and gentler, knowing they need to build you back up; they use their hands now too, stroking up and over your outer lips while they flirt between those and the inner ones with the tip of their tongue. They lick and kiss in zigzag patterns over and around you: Light, light. It tickles as much as it burns, pleasure without urgency.

You click at the half-forgotten remote in your hand. Frisk jumps a little on the mattress, humming into you; the little vibration of their voice crackles in your clit and sends shivers all throughout your body.

After all of today it almost feels wrong to not have them playing with your breasts, though. You play your free hand over your chest idly, and it feels _good,_ but it’s still nowhere near as nice as a partner’s touch.

You glance towards the bedside table, and your new toy on it in easy reach.

It’s definitely not just Frisk dipping a fingertip inside you and sucking at your lips that’s making your face burn. Having that idea at a time like this, having it be so easily doable—but you’re not as used to messing around with toys as they are. It’s hard to be so cavalier about it.

But… Frisk is busy eating you out, and even if they _do_ see you fumbling… they’re at least not going to make fun of you for it. That much, you know you can count on.

So you reach out with your left hand and grasp your vibrator, carefully bringing it back towards your body with your fist gripped tight around it. Heart pounding, you squeeze down on the on button—and after a few excruciating moments, it hums to life between your fingers at its gentlest setting. You can’t even hear it over the wet messy noises of Frisk’s mouth on you and the pulsating _bzzzZZZZZzzzZZZZZzz_ of their toy.

Further down the bed, Frisk halts in sucking to retract their fingers from inside you and drag their tongue up the length of your vulva again. This they end in flicking their tongue over your clit, and you yelp.

The toy in your hand is still humming as if in impatience. So when Frisk slips their fingers into you again and starts to thrust them in and out at a lively pace, stretching and rubbing at the mouth of your pussy, you mash buttons on the remote to cover for your own shyness and then set the vibrator in your hand against your own breast, at the edge of your areola.

You have about a split second to be relieved that the soft pliant silicone isn’t texture fuckhell on your nipple the way it would be on your pussy, and then the gentle vibrations electrify your nerves.

_This._ This is—you think you cried out a little, you think you may _still_ be crying out a little, but you don’t actually care? The mild but new stimulation on your sensitive breast, especially with Frisk’s talented tongue caressing your pussylips and clit, especially with their tender hands working you—it’s—before you even realize it you’ve already pressed the toy to your nipple, and your hips are undulating beneath Frisk’s touch, trying to ride their face. The amount of pleasure is flirting with the edge of _too much_ while still staying on the safe side, and Frisk seals their mouth over your clit and curls their tongue around you and they suck—

You arch up off the bed again as you come, your whole body tense and trembling. Frisk supports your hip with one hand and presses for your g-spot with the fingers of the other, still sucking, and—before the orgasm can fully fade, a second and more intense crest of pleasure starts to build—

The cry you make doesn’t even sound like your voice. Your eyes are burning—you think it might be tears and not just sweat dripping on your face to tickle at your earlobes. And the sheets beneath you are hot and damp: You may have just come more extravagantly—or at least with a lot more force—than this morning or the kitchen. Warm, tingling waves of pleased contentment buoy you up ‘til you don’t feel connected with the world anymore. The dizziness is like unto a fever, but much more pleasant.

Frisk lets you go before you have a chance to get overstimulated. Their face sways in your vision when they sit up, but you can still see the love in their eyes and the shiny fresh fluid splashed all down their front. They stroke your thigh and then crawl up the bed slowly to kiss your face, and that’s all you can remember.

 

 

After this the first thing you are aware of is the buzz of Frisk’s toy—much softer than it was when you had the remote.

You blink: The bedroom is darker than before, illuminated only by a small nightlight. Frisk is curled up beside you on their side, flank rising and falling with the deepness of sleep.

Your mouth feels like a desert. You grope for the bedside table and almost knock your toy and your phone off it before you manage to come up with the water bottle.

You have no idea what time it is—probably the middle of the night, you don’t give a shit, you’re still utterly exhausted. Once you’ve drunk most of the contents of the bottle you set it back where it was and lie back down.

The sheets—and your body—don’t feel sticky and uncomfortable. Frisk must have wiped you down and somehow changed the bedclothes while you were passed out: These covers over the both of you weren’t here before either. You’ll have to thank them tomorrow.

They’re replete, at last. Hopefully today was able to help them, at least a little.

They’re _here._

You lie down back to back with them and close your eyes again.


End file.
